A  TEXT-BOOK 


FOR   THE 


STUDY  OF    POETRY 


BY 


F.    M.    9|0NNELL,   S.J. 

PROFESSOR   OF    POETRY,    ST.   ANDRE W-0N-HUD80N 


>>»Jc 


ALLYN    AND    BACON 

Boston  Nefaj  gork  Cticago 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 
BY   F.    M     CONNELL. 


•  •  •  •       •      • 


/:l.:-  •-..    .•.^. 


J.  S.  CusMng  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

The  purpose  of  this  book  is  not  to  furnish  instruction  in 
the  art  of  verse-making,  but  rather  to  set  forth  the  funda- 
mental principles  of  criticism  by  which  to  form  some  esti- 
mate of  acknowledged  poetry.  It  has  been  truly  said  that 
in  order  to  judge  a  poem,  it  is  first  necessary  to  enjoy  it. 
This  susceptibility  to  poetry,  so  far  as  it  is  communicable 
at  all,  must  come  from  contact  with  the  living  teacher,  and 
neither  this  nor  any  other  book  is  calculated  to  awaken  it. 
But  once  awakened  the  taste  may  be  educated,  as  it  may 
be  vitiated;  it  may  be  developed,  controlled,  directed  into 
right  channels ;  and  this  may  be  done  efficaciously,  by  prin- 
ciples and  precepts,  provided  that  they  are  not  learned  as 
abstractions,  but  tested  and  realized  in  the  student's  own 
reading. 

The  low  esteem  in  which  poetry  is  often  held  in  our  day 
seems,  at  least  in  part,  to  proceed  from  a  misconception  of 
its  office.  It  is  regarded  merely  as  a  pastime  for  dilettanti, 
or  a  solace  for  the  leisure  hours  of  the  sentimental,  and  this 
conception  is  fostered  by  such  criticism  as  lays  undue  stress 
on  mere  form  or  style,  as  if  the  appeal  of  poetry  resided  in 
the  fascination  of  musical  verse  or  felicitous  diction.  But 
poetry  surely  contains  more  for  us  than  the  allurement  of 
words.  More  than  any  other  form  of  literature,  it  creates 
our  ideals,  enriches  our  emotions,  ennobles  our  reflections. 
More  than  any  other  form  of  literature,  it  puts  us  in  com- 
munion with  intense  personalities,  and  so  enlarges  our 
horizon  and  liberates  the  soul  from  the  narrow  limits  of 

iu 

423C93 


IV  PREFACE 

its  own  personal  experiences.  This  it  does  in  a  direct  way, 
but  also  indirectly,  when  the  subject  matter  is  not  man, 
but  nature.  For  to  conceive  loftily  even  of  the  "  earth  and 
sky  and  plain  "  exalts  the  soul  and  leaves  us  broader  and 
better  men.  It  is  such  a  view  of  poetry  that  this  book 
seeks  to  inculcate,  by  insisting,  as  of  paramount  impor- 
tance, on  what  the  poet  says,  his  thought  and  his  message, 
its  truth  and  its  worthiness. 

We  have  remarked  that  our  purpose  was  not  to  offer  in- 
struction in  verse-making.  However,  though  not  an  end  in 
itself,  as  an  aid  to  the  appreciation  of  poetic  expression, 
verse-making  possesses  no  little  value  and  should  hold  its 
time-honored  place  in  the  study  of  poetry.  As  some  help 
to  this,  a  chapter  of  practical  detail  on  poetic  diction  with 
abundant  illustration  has  been  added  by  way  of  appendix. 

In  regard  to  the  use  of  this  book  in  the  classroom  the 
following  suggestions  may  be  offered.  The  two  chapters  on 
Versification  and  the  added  chapter  on  Poetic  Diction  should 
be  studied  before  all  others,  and  early  in  the  year.  The 
poetry  read  during  the  preparation  of  these  sections  will 
serve  the  purpose  of  awakening  that  first  appreciation  of 
poetic  appeal  spoken  of  above,  and  will  also  put  the  student 
in  the  way  of  trying  his  own  hand  at  verse.  Tennyson's 
poems  and  selections  from  Keats  are  recommended  as  the 
best  subjects  of  study  at  this  period.  This  part  of  the  work 
should  be  done  leisurely  and  at  length;  for  the  first  chap- 
ters on  the  theory  of  poetry  will  be  meaningless  unless  some 
idea  of  poetic  effect  be  conceived  before  they  are  begun. 
The  length  of  time  devoted  to  the  Definition  of  Poetry  will 
depend  entirely  upon  the  capacity  of  the  class  to  interest 
itself  in  an  abstract  discussion,  and  the  subject  may  with- 
out detriment  be  briefly  despatched.  During  the  study  of 
the  second  chapter,  on  the  emotions,  Shelley  and  Gray  are 
recommended  for  reading,  as  being  interesting  contrasts  ia 


PREFACE  V 

the  exhibition  of  emotion.  Also  for  the  sake  of  contrast, 
Milton  (Paradise -Lost),  Spenser,  and  perhaps  Coleridge  may 
be  studied  for  imagination,  though  for  the  dramatic  imagi- 
nation, Shakespeare  is  of  course  paramount.  Shakespeare's 
Sonnets  and  Wordsworth  may  be  suggested  to  accompany 
the  reading  of  the  chapter  on  Thought  in  Poetry.  The 
chapter  on  Expression,  as  will  be  observed,  is  abstract,  and 
presumes  some  familiarity  with  the  poets.  Shakespeare 
and  Milton  are  the  supreme  masters  here ;  Pope,  Keats, 
and  Swinburne  may  be  used  to  offset  these  in  two  different 
directions. 

Finally,  if  the  work  seems  oftentimes  to  dogmatize  in 
dealing  with  subjects  that  are  not  in  the  least  dogmas,  it 
must  be  remembered  in  extenuation  that  this  was  the  only 
possible  course  in  a  book  of  moderate  dimensions.  And  if 
K-uskin's  definition  of  poetry,  wliich  has  been  adopted  for 
its  serviceableness,  should  seem  to  some  far  from  adequate, 
it  may  be  remarked  that  to  the  author  also  it  seems  inade- 
quate as  does  every  other  definition  of  poetry;  and  if  it 
should  prove  less  practically  useful  to  others  than  it  has 
proved  to  him,  it  is  after  all  not  indispensable  to  the  prin- 
ciples which  follow  it  in  this  book. 

For  the  convenience  of  classes  working  together,  the  exer- 
cises, as  far  as  possible,  have  been  drawn  from  Palgrave's 
Oolden  Treasury  (revised  edition)  and  from  the  poems  of 
Tennyson. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PART   I 
THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I.    The  Definition  of  Poetry. 

The  Beautiful 1 

Poetry  Defined 8 

Other  Definitions 9 

Poetry  and  Metre       ........  11 

CHAPTER  II.    Emotion  in  Poetry. 

Poetry  Emotional 15 

Poetry  Nobly  Emotional 18 

Intensity  of  Emotion 24 

Variety  of  Emotion 27 

CHAPTER  III.    Imagination  in  Poetry. 

The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  General         ....  29 

The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  Poetry           ....  31 

The  Imagination  and  Fancy 31 

The  Imaging  Power  and  Creative  Power  ...  32 

The  Imaginative  Treatment  of  Poetic  Subjects        .        .  37 

Of  Narrative  and  Descriptive  Subjects      ...  38 

Of  External  Nature    .        .        .        .        .        .        .41 

Of  Human  Character 45 

CHAPTER  IV.    Thought  in  Poetry. 

General  Ideas  in  Poetry 52 

Thought  to  be  Instinct  with  Emotion       ....  56 

Originality  of  Thought      .......  58 

Truth  of  Poetic  Thought  . 59 

Truth  in  General  Conceptions 59 

Truth  in  Narrative  and  Description  .         .         .         .61 

Idealization 66 

Kealism 69 


Vlll 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  V.    Expression. 

The  Medium  of  Expression 

Thought  and  Expression  . 

Aspects  of  Expression 

The  Intellectual  Aspect 
The  Imaginative  Aspect 
The  Emotional  Aspect 

Four  Chief  Poetic  Tendencies 


73 

74 

77 
77 
80 
85 


PART   II 
THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 


CHAPTER  I.    Narrative  Poetry. 

The  Epic    . 

The  End     . 
The  Action 
Unity  . 
Development 
The  Primitive  Epic 
The  Epic  of  Art 
Other  Narrative  Forms 

CHAPTER  II.    Dramatic  Poetry. 
Tragedy     .... 

The  End     . 

The  Persons 

The  Fable  . 

The  Structure     . 
Ancient  Greek  Tragedy    . 
Comedy      .... 
Ancient  Classic  Comedy   . 

CHAPTER  III.    Lyric  Poetry. 
Definition  .... 
Classification 
General  Characteristics 


94 

'  94 

95 

95 

96 

99 

100 

101 


104 
104 
106 
108 
112 
116 
124 
126 


132 
133 
137 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS  IX 

PAftB 

CHAPTER  IV.    Minor  Species. 

Didactic  Poetry 145 

Satire 146 

Pastoral  Poetry 148 

Dramatic  Lyrics  and  Narratives 149 

PART   III 

VERSIFICATION 

CHAPTER  I.    Metre. 

Measurement  by  Accent .  152 

The  Metrical  Foot  and  Verse 154 

Caesura  —  Emphasis 163 

The  Stanza  and  Blank  Verse 166 

CHAPTER    II.    Verse  and  Melody. 

Rhyme 172 

Quantity 174 

Alliteration  and  Assonance 176 

Onomatopoeia 178 

APPENDICES 

I.  Topics  for  the  Study  of  Lyric  Poems 185 

II.  Practical  Lessons  on  Poetic  Diction        ....  187 

The  Vocabulary 187 

Poetic  Intensity 190 

Imaginative  Intensity 191 

Emotional  Intensity 197 

III.  Suggestions  for  Verse-Writing 201 

IV.  Selection   from   "The   Troublesome   Reign   of  John, 

King  of  England" 205 

Index 209 


!••     •    »  '>•>»! 


PART  ONE 

THE  NATURE  OP  POETRY 


3»;c 


CHAPTER   I 
The  Definition  of  Poetry 

When  we  ask  ourselves  what  constitutes  the  essence  of 
poetry,  or  what  is  its  definition,  we  meet  a  question  which 
criticism  has  failed  to  answer  with  anything  like  final 
satisfaction.  This  is  not  because  critics  disagree  as  to 
what  literary  productions  deserve  to  be  called  poetry  in 
the  concrete,  but  because  of  the  difficulty  of  grasping  the 
abstract  trait  which  precisely  distinguishes  the  poem  from 
what  is  not  a  poem.  And  yet  if  we  are  to  study  poetry 
systematically,  it  will  be  helpful  to  formulate  some  defini- 
tion or  quasi-definition,  even  though  it  be  imperfect.  To 
arrive  at  this  definition  is  the  object  of  the  present  chapter. 

Preparatory  to  this,  we  may  note  one  or  two  principles 
that  are  universally  accepted. 

In  the  first  place,  poetry  is  not  synonymous  with  verse ; 
that  is,  not  everything  written  in  verse  is  poetry.  This 
needs  only  to  be  stated  to  become  apparent,  —  though  the 
converse,  viz.,  whether  everything  we  call  poetry  must  be 
written  in  verse,  is  quite  another  question,  and  is  variously 
answered.     We  reserve  this  for  another  place. 

1 


•   •      •      •  • 


2  >'.:  ''•';  ''"'^'''THk'^A^Xfl^E  OF  POETRY 

Secondly,  it  follows  from  this  that  we  do  not  adequately 
divide  literature  into  poetry  and  prose,  but  into  verse  and 
prose.  What  is  not  verse  is  prose;  but  we  cannot  say, 
whatever  is  not  poetry  is  prose,  there  being  a  class  of  com- 
positions which  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  mere 
verse.  Indeed,  we  have  no  word  to  express  the  antithesis 
of  poetry,  i.e.  what  is  not  poetry.  If  we  had,  probably  the 
definition  of  poetry  itself  would  be  solved  by  the  word. 

Assuming  the  above  principles,  we  may  approach  our 
definition  of  poetry. 

1.  Poetry  a  Fine  Art.  —  No  one  will  question  the  state- 
ment that  poetry  is  one  of  the  fine  arts.  This  places  it  in 
the  category  with  painting,  sculpture,  and  music.  Now  all 
the  fine  arts  have  for  their  distinctive  object  to  express  the 
beautiful.  They  are  differentiated  from  one  another  by  the 
means  employed  to  reach  this  end.     Thus  : 

Music  expresses  the  beautiful  by  means  of  pure  sound 
(melody  and  harmony) ; 

Painting,  by  means  of  color  and  surface  form  ; 

Sculpture,  by  means  of  plastic  form ; 

Poetry,  by  means  of  language. 

This  being  true,  we  may  define  poetry  to  be  the  art  of 
giving  expression  to  the  beautiful  through  the  medium  of 
language. 

If  this  definition  were  satisfactory,  the  nature  of  poetry 
would  not  furnish  a  theme  for  endless  discussion.  But  it 
is  not  satisfactory.  Its  insufficiency  lies  in  the  fact  that 
the  definition  is  not  clearer  than  the  thing  defined.  Poetry 
is  the  art  of  giving  expression  to  the  beautiful.  But  what 
is  the  beautiful  ?  To  answer  this  is  the  very  problem  we 
must  face  in  defining  the  nature  of  poetry  itself. 

2.  The  Beautiful.  —  We  may  approach  this  question  in 
the  following  way.  We  may  begin  by  assuming  a  defini- 
tion, or  at  least  a  description,  of  the  beautiful.     Next,  we 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  S 

may  consider  this  definition  as  applied  to  objects  admitted 
to  be  beautiful,  and  finally  examine  whether  the  said  defini- 
tion is  applicable  to  all  that  the  world  has  judged  worthy 
to  be  called  beautiful,  and  applicable  to  nothing  else.  If 
we  find  this  to  be  the  case,  we  may  rest  content  that  our 
definition  is  at  least  a  working  one. 

3.  A  Noble  Emotion.  —  AVe  assume,  then,  hypothetically 
that  an  object  is  beautiful, — at  least  artistically  beautiful, 
— when  the  contemplation  of  it  is  calculated  to  awaken  in  us 
a  noble  emotion. 

We  do  not  claim  that  this  is  a  philosophical  definition 
in  the  sense  that  it  determines  the  essential  and  intrinsic 
attribute  of  beauty,  but  merely  that  it  is  coextensive  with 
it;  that  is,  that  we  find  it  applicable  wherever  we  find 
beauty,  and  nowhere  else.  A  beautiful  object,  then,  is  one 
that  is  calculated  to  awaken  a  noble  emotion. 

4.  Not  Mere  Sense-gratification.  —  For,  in  the  first  place, 
we  cannot  admit  into  the  category  of  the  beautiful  what 
merely  gratifies  the  senses,  say  sight  or  hearing,  and  does 
no  more.  Let  the  painter  spread  his  canvas  with  a  mean- 
ingless array  of  colors,  and,  however  delicate  may  be  the 
shade,  or  however  pleasing  the  blending,  if  it  is  mere 
color  and  nothing  more,  we  cannot  call  the  result  beautiful. 
In  the  same  way,  a  single  chord  of  music  sounded  upon  the 
organ  may  please  the  ear,  and  yet  is  not  beautiful. 

It  is  doubtless  true  that  we  do  often  apply  the  epithet, 
beautiful,  to  such  colors  and  sounds  as  merely  please  the  eye 
and  ear.  But  this  would  seem  to  be  an  inaccurate,  or  at 
least  an  analogical  use  of  the  term;  and  for  this  reason. 
If  we  will  consider  how  essentially  different  is  the  effect 
produced  upon  us  by  a  painting  of  the  seashore  or  a  forest, 
and  by  the  mere  sense-gratification  produced  by  any  shade 
or  combination  of  colors ;  or,  again,  if  we  try  to  realize  the 
difference  between  the  effect  of  a  Beethoven  symphony  and 


4       ^  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

the  pleasure  given  by  a  chord  of  music  or  succession  of 
chords,  we  shall  instantly  realize  that  they  belong  to  differ- 
ent categories.  The  difference  is  not  merely  a  difference  of 
intensity  of  pleasure,  but  a  difference  in  the  nature  of  the 
pleasure.  The  former  is,  properly  speaking,  beautiful ;  the 
latter  is  pleasing,  but  not  beautiful  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  term. 

5.  Not  Merely  "  Unity  and  Variety."  —  As  sense-gratifica- 
tion does  not  constitute  the  beautiful,  so  neither  does  the 
element  of  "  unity  amid  variety."  Symmetry,  order,  propor- 
tion, coordination  of  parts,  are  all  manifestations  of  this 
"  unity  amid  variety."  Yet  we  may  have  all  of  these  fea- 
tures in  a  geometrical  diagram.  We  may  find  them  more 
elaborately  expressed  in  a  musical  composition  that  leaves 
us  utterly  unimpressed.  It  is  not  merely  symmetry  and 
proportion,  therefore,  that  we  admire  in  the  lineaments  of 
the  human  face  or  form,  or  in  the  parts  of  a  flower,  when 
we  call  either  of  these  things  beautiful,  even  though 
here,  as  before,  the  term  may  be  loosely  applied  to  such 
objects. 

6.  Conveys  an  Idea. — What,  then,  do  we  find  in  an  object 
which  we  apprehend  as  beautiful,  more  than  mere  color  or 
sound,  and  symmetry  and  proportion?  We  apprehend,  it 
seems,  several  other  things.  We  apprehend,  first  of  all,  an 
idea ;  our  mind  as  well  as  our  senses  enter  into  the  process. 
When  a  painter  pictures  a  landscape,  we  call  it  beautiful 
because  he  conveys  to  us  the  idea  of  solitude,  or  desolation, 
or  luxuriant  life,  or  peace.  When  we  call  a  sunset  beautiful 
in  a  true  sense,  we  do  so  because  we  read  in  its  mysterious 
depths  of  distance  an  image  of  infinity,  or  in  its  lurid  red 
an  image  of  danger  or  doom.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  for 
less-gifted  mortals  who  are  not  poets,  such  ideas  may  be 
obscure  and  subconscious,  and  for  this  reason  we  require 
the  artist  to  interpret  our  ideas,  to  emphasize  the  thought, 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  5 

or,  technically  speaking,  to  idealize  the  scene,  of  which  more 
hereafter.  But  the  very  fact  that  we  require  such  idealiza- 
tion is  evidence  that  the  idea  must  speak  to  us  as  well  as 
the  color  or  the  shape. 

7.  An  Emotional  Idea.  —  Yet  it  is  obvious  that  not  every 
idea  will  contribute  to  the  constitution  of  the  beautiful.  A 
sunset  may  suggest  the  reflection  that  the  days  are  growing 
longer,  or  to  the  weather-wise  may  image  forth  a  clear  day 
to-morrow,  —  conceptions  that  are  neither  beautiful  nor  po- 
etical. We  will,  therefore,  ask  ourselves  what  kind  of 
idea  must  this  be,  which  enters  into  our  conception  of  beauty. 
The  answer  seems  to  be  that  it  must  be  an  emotional  idea; 
that  is,  an  idea  calculated  to  stir  an  emotion  in  the  breast, 
—  not  any  sort  of  emotion,  however,  as  must  be  plain,  but  an 
(Esthetic  emotion. 

8.  A  Noble  Emotion.  —  Yet  if  we  leave  the  matter  here, 
we  are  as  far  off  as  ever  from  the  solution  of  our  question. 
For  an  aesthetic  emotion  is  as  difficult  to  define  as  the  con- 
ception of  beauty  itself.  It  seems,  we  can  reduce  the  mat- 
ter to  simpler  terms.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  our  emotions  are 
usually  very  complex,  compounded  of  many  diverse  impulses. 
But  whenever  an  emotion  is  awakened  that  is  purely  nohUj 
when  it  is  purged  of  all  the  dross  that  tends  to  make  it  ig- 
noble, and  when  such  an  emotion  is  stirred  by  an  object 
addressing  the  senses  or  represented  in  the  imagination,  in 
that  case  we  may  term  the  said  object  beautiful. 

9.  What  a  Noble  Emotion  Is.  —  But  this  should  appear 
more  distinctly  when  we  consider  what  we  understand  by 
a  noble  emotion.  Such  a  familiar  idea  is  more  easily  under- 
stood than  defined,  but  in  general  we  use  the  word  in 
no  technical  or  unusual  sense,  but  simply  of  what  uplifts 
and  expands  the  heart,  as  opposed  to  what  debases  or 
depresses  it.  We  exclude  from  the  range  of  noble 
emotions  — 


6  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

1.  All  sucii  as  are  base,  immoral,  vicious; 

2.  Such  as  are  selfish  or  self -regarding,  as  self-love,  envy,  per- 
sonal discontent ; 

3.  Such  as  are  purely  sensuous; 

4.  Such  as  depress  and  narrow  the  soul,  as  personal  fear,  horror, 
dread ; 

5.  Such  as  are  trivial,  as  curiosity,  mere  interest,  amusement.^ 

10.  Definition  Applied  to  Art.  —  An  object  then  is  beauti- 
ful which  is  calculated  to  excite  such  a  noble  emotion  as 
has  been  described.  To  test  this  we  might  take  our  defi- 
nition into  the  presence  of  the  acknowledged  masterpieces 
of  art  the  world  over.  This  is  impossible  within  the  limits 
of  the  present  work.  But  whether  we  turn  to  the  artists 
of  the  Kenaissance  and  read  in  their  work  the  expression  of 
a  ^'joyful  self-restraint,^^  or  whether  we  find  in  the  Gothic 
architecture  of  medievalism  an  image  of  "  religious  enthu- 
siasm,''^ or  whether  we  diagnose  Greek  art  as  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  two  great  emotional  ideas  of  "  hlitliefulness  or 
joy,"  and  "  breadth  or  universal  sympathy,"  everywhere  we 
discover  an  emotional  idea  that  is  ennobling  or  uplifting, 
an  emotion  that  we  need  not  merely  relegate  to  the  obscure 
category  of  the  "  aesthetic." 

11.  Definition  Applied  to  all  Beautiful  Objects.  —  We  come 
now  to  the  crucial  point  in  our  study.  Granted  that  a 
noble  emotion  is  excited  by  a  beautiful  object,  is  it  true 
to  say  that  the  two  ideas  are  coextensive,  —  does  every 
object  really  beautiful  excite  a  noble  emotion  ?  We  make 
answer  in  the  affirmative.  Let  us  take  two  examples  where 
at  first  sight  the  affirmation  may  seem  to  be  questionable. 

The  first  is  the  case  of  a  painting  executed  with  admirable 
perfection  of  form  and  color,  yet  openly  and  unblushingly 
licentious,  i.e.  expressing  frank  sympathy  with  a  lascivious 

1  See  following  chapter  for  a  fuller  cousideration  of  what  we  understand 
by  a  noble  emotion. 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  T 

conception.  The  appeal  is  to  the  base  emotions.  Now  it 
may  be  said  that  this,  though  immoral  and  objectionable, 
is  yet  art  and  so  is  beautiful.^     We  answer  this  briefly. 

We  contend  that  such  art  is  false  art,  and  therefore  is 
not  art.  The  idea  itself  is  not  beautiful,  nor  is  the  artist's 
sympathy  with  it.  If  his  power  of  expression  invests  it 
with  attractiveness,  this  is  misrepresentation,  and  hence 
false  art,  —  as  if  he  expressed  his  admiration  for  an  act  of 
physical  uncleanness.  One  may,  if  one  must,  admire  the 
wonderful  technique  exhibited  in  such  productions ;  but 
this  admiration  of  the  artist's  technical  skill  is  quite  apart 
from  the  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  work  itself,  as 
will  be  set  forth  hereafter.  It  is  no  defect,  but  a  triumph, 
in  our  definition,  that  it  serves  to  exclude  from  the  category 
of  the  beautiful  such  poisonous  products  of  the  brain. 

But  we  turn  to  an  example  that  requires  more  discrimi- 
nation. "  Pity,"  it  may  be  urged,  "  will  be  admitted  with- 
out contention  to  be  a  noble  emotion.  Now  a  beggar  covered 
with  rags  excites  my  pity,  yet  would  not  be  called  a 
beautiful  object.  Hence  we  find  a  noble  emotion  excited 
by  an  object  that  is  not  beautiful."  The  answer  to  this 
is  important,  because  it  throws  additional  light  on  the 
definition  and  furnishes  the  key  to  the  solution  of  other 
difficulties.  The  reason  why  the  object  described  is  not 
beautiful,  is  that  the  noble  emotion,  pity,  is  obscured  by 
another  accompanying  emotion  of  horror,  pain,  repulsion, 
which,  as  was  noted  above,  is  not  noble.  The  squalid 
details  of  the  beggar  make  too  much  impression  upon  our 
feelings  to  give  the  noble  emotion  fair  play. 

This  will  be   more   convincing   if   we   can   imagine   the 

1  The  relation  between  art  and  morality  will  be  considered  more  fully 
in  the  following  chapter.  See  pp.  18  ff.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  this  view  is 
supported  by  such  authority  as  Aristotle  among  the  ancients,  and  by 
Matthew  Arnold,  Ruskin,  Shairp,  and  many  others  of  our  own  times. 


8  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

offensive  details  softened  down.  To  do  this  let  us  turn 
from  the  beggar  of  the  street  and  enter  a  picture  gallery. 
Perchance  we  may  find  on  the  walls  this  wretched  Lazarus 
made  the  subject  of  the  artist's  brush,  and  so  lifted  into 
a  theme  of  beauty.  What  is  the  transformation?  The 
painter  has  idealized  the  object,  and  in  doing  so  has  sub- 
dued the  shocking  features  and  emphasized  the  appeal 
to  sympathy ;  in  other  words,  he  has  given  the  noble 
emotion  its  full  exercise  unmixed  with  what  is  repulsive, 
and  by  so  doing  has  made  his  painting  beautiful.  This, 
as  was  said,  has  many  applications.  In  real  life  our  emo- 
tions are  so  complex  that  it  is  perhaps  a  rare  occasion  when 
the  noble  emotion  is  disengaged  from  all  hindering  influ- 
ences. And  hence  precisely  it  is,  that  the  province  of  the 
artist,  whether  he  be  poet  or  painter,  is  not  merely  to 
photograph  nature,  but  to  separate  what  is  not  beautiful 
from  what  is,  to  emphasize  the  latter  and  subdue  or  sup- 
press the  former. 

12.  Poetry  Defined.  —  And  so  we  may  accept  the  fore- 
going definition  of  the  beautiful  as  accurate  for  practical 
purposes.  An  object  is  beautiful  when  it  images  forth 
such  a  conception  in  the  mind  as  is  calculated  to  stir  a 
noble  emotion. 

Consequently,  in  our  notion  of  the  beautiful  we  find 
three  elements:  (1)  the  object,  concrete  and  sensible,  to 
which  we  apply  the  term  "  beautiful "  ;  (2)  the  idea,  rep- 
resented or  suggested  by  the  object  to  the  intelligence  ; 
(3)  the  emotion  awakened  by  the  idea  and  the  object ;  that 
is,  by  the  idea  embodied,  as  it  were,  visibly  in  the  object. 

If  we  compare  music,  poetry,  and  painting,  all  of  which 
have  for  their  aim  to  set  forth  the  beautiful,  we  may  ob- 
serve that,  in  painting,  the  object  is  expressed  primarily  and 
directly.  Painting  puts  the  object  on  the  canvas,  and  through 
it  conveys,  indirectly  and  suggestively,  the  idea  and  the  emotion. 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  9 

Music,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  have  a  power  to  reach  the 
emotion  itself  in  a  more  direct  way  than  is  possessed  by  any 
other  art;  while  poetry  deals  directly  with  the  idea  (language 
being  primarily  the  vehicle  for  thought),  and  rather  suggests 
than  expresses  the  object  and  the  emotion  connected  with  the  idea. 

Applying  this  to  our  preliminary  definition  of  poetry  (page 
2)  we  may  now  conclude  that  poetry  is  the  art  of  imaging 
forth  objectively  such  a  conception  of  the  mind  as  is 
calculated  to  stir  a  noble  emotion,  or  more  satisfactorily 
(and  this  formula  we  will  make  our  final  definition):  — 

Poetry  is  the  imaginative  representation^  through  theraedium 
of  language,  of  true  grounds  for  the  7ioble  emotions.^ 

It  will  be  noted  that  in  this  formula  we  have  introduced 
the  expression  "imaginative  representation."  This  is  not  an  un- 
warranted addition,  but  merely  an  explicit  statement  of  what  has 
already  been  implied  in  the  description  of  the  beautiful.  For 
poetry  has  no  means  of  putting  before  us  a  beautiful  object  at  all, 
except  through  a  representation  of  it  by  means  of  the  imagination. 

The  words  "  true  grounds  "  are  a  convenient  designation  for  the 
thought  or  conception  that  must  lie  at  the  bottom  of  all  intelligent 
emotion. 

If  we  now  examine  our  definition  analytically,  we  shall 
find  that  it  exhibits  three  elements;  the  emotional,  the  im- 
aginative, the  intellectual.  But,  besides  these,  the  representa- 
tion of  which  we  speak  must  be  adequately  executed  in 
language;  hence  we  find  a  fourth  element,  the  element  of 
language  expression. 

Each  of  these  four  elements  will  presently  be  discussed  in 
separate  chapters. 

13.  Other  Definitions.  —  (1)  Aristotle  calls  poetry  fufxrjm^, — 
"imitation";  and  if  we  ask,  of  what?  we  are  told  that  it  is 
an  "imitation  of  men  acting"  ("Poetics,"  Chap.  I).    This  re- 

1  See  Ruskin,  "  Modern  Painters,"  Vol.  Ill,  p.  10. 


10  THE  NATUBE  OF  POETRY 

mark  needs  to  be  explained  by  comparison  with  other  parts 
of  the  "Poetics."^     . 

The  following  points  are  particularly  to  be  noted :  — 

(a)  That  by  the  word  /xcfirja-L^  (imitation)  we  are  not  to 
understand  mimicry,  or  photographic  copying  of  nature,  but 
creative  production,  imaginative  representation.  In  using 
this  word  Aristotle  desired  to  lay  stress  on  the  principle 'of 
fidelity  to  nature  in  depicting  human  character;  he  afterwards 
discriminates  against  exaggerated  realism  by  stating  that 
the  poet  is  to  imitate  nature  not  as  it  actually  exists  in  all 
its  details,  but  nature  as  it  should  be,  or  as  it  ideally  ex- 
ists in  the  mind  of  the  artist. 

(6)  That  when  he  speaks  of  "men  acting,"  he  alludes  not 
to  external  acts,  such  as  lighting,  running,  but  to  the  activi- 
ties of  the  soul,  the  emotions,  and  traits  of  character  that 
make  up  human  life. 

(c)  That  though  this  definition  has  special  reference  to  the 
dramatic  poet,  it  may  easily  be  extended  to  cover  the  case  of 
the  lyric  poet  also,  who,  even  in  describing  external  nature, 
is  bound  to  "imitate"  (that  is,  to  express  faithfully)  his  own 
personal  soul-activities  or  emotions,  and  not  merely  report 
the  appearances  of  nature. 

{d)  That  Aristotle  does  not  tolerate  any  poetic  sympathy 
with  moral  depravity.  "Depravity  is  justly  censured 
when  there  is  no  inner  necessity  for  introducing  it." 
"Things  are  censured  either  as  impossible  or  irrational 
or  morally  hurtful.^' ^  The  inner  necessity  referred  to  is 
some  such  artistic  requirement  as  alluded  to  in  the  follow- 
ing chapter.^ 

It  follows  from  the  above  that  Aristotle's  phrase,  "poetry  is 
an  imitation  of  men  acting,"  is  only  another  expression  for 

1  For  a  discussion  of  this  matter,  see  Mr.  Butcher's  "Aristotle's  Theory 
of  Poetry  and  the  Fine  Arts,"  Chap.  II. 

2  '«  Poetics,"  Chap.  XXV.  •     8  See  p.  20. 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  11 

the   definition   adopted   that  "poetry  is  the   expression   of 
noble  emotion." 

(2)  So  too,  Plato  ("Eepublic,"  Book  10)  declares  that 
poetry  "imitates  men  who  are  engaged  in  action  —  and  who 
in  the  midst  of  all  these  circumstances  are  conscious  either 
of  joy  or  grief."  He  then  goes  on  to  show  that  the  poet's 
function  is  to  portray  the  emotional  rather  than  the  rational 
phases  of  life  and  character; — and  this  leads  us  round  once 
more  to  the  definition  we  have  adopted. 

(3)  With  regard  to  the  many  other  definitions,  ancient 
and  modern,  which  ascribe  to  poetry  the  essential  feature  of 
"giving  pleasure,"  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  reference 
is  to  the  particular  kind  of  pleasure  called  aesthetic ;  that  is 
to  the  gratification  awakened  by  a  beautiful  object.  If,  then, 
our  analysis  of  the  beautiful  is  satisfactory,  if,  in  other  words, 
aesthetic  pleasure  is  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  noble 
emotion  excited  by  a  noble  idea  embodied  in  a  worthy  ob- 
ject, we  may  conclude  that  these  views  of  poetry,  in  so  far, 
offer  no  prejudice  to  our  own.^ 

14.  Poetry  and  Metre. —  We  may  here  consider  the  further 
question  whether  we  are  to  regard  metre  as  a  part  of  the 
essence  itself  of  poetry.  It  is  indeed  a  question  of  small 
moment,  because  it  reduces  itself  to  a  mere  matter  of  no- 
menclature. Authorities,  too,  are  more  or  less  equally  di- 
vided, and  the  prince  of  authorities,  Aristotle,  is  claimed  by 
both  sides.2 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  both  by  natural  instinct  and  by 
convention  some  form  of  patterned  language  is  adopted  as 
the  normal  mode  of  poetical  expression.  But  it  is  quite  an- 
other thing  to  claim  that,  without  it,  what  were  otherwise 
poetry  ceases  to  be  poetry,  that  without  it  poetry  is  incon- 
ceivable.    Metre  seems  to  be  too  external  a  feature  to  be 

1  For  sundry  other  definitions  of  poetry  see  p.  14. 

2  See  "  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  the  Fine  Arts,"  Chap.  II. 


12  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

made  a  part  of  the  essence  of  poetry.  Poetry  differs  from 
non-poetry  in  so  many  respects  that  concern  the  very  heart 
and  life  of  the  thought  and  conception,  that  it  seems  unfitting 
to  superadd  another  distinguishing  feature  that  is  merely 
external.  If  a  composition  possesses  all  the  profounder 
characteristics  that  are  requisite  to  make  it  poetry,  it  is 
unreasonable  to  refuse  it  the  title  merely  because  it  is 
lacking  in  such  a  surface  matter  as  metre. 

Let  us  take  an  example.     If  we  call  it  poetry  to  write,  — 

(1)  Hear  ye,  wise  men,  my  words  ;  ye  learned,  hear 

which  is  metrical,  it  would  seem  unreasonable  to  call  it  no 
poetry  to  write,  — 

(2)  Hear,  wise  men,  my  words,  and  ye  learned  hearken 
unto  me  (Job  xxxiv.  2), 

because  it  is  not  metrical.  Call  the  latter  defective  poetry, 
if  need  be ;  but  poetry  let  it  remain  along  with  the  first,  for 
both  are  pitched  in  the  exalted  emotional  key  that  is  foreign 
to  what  is  not  poetry.  On  the  other  hand,  let  us  formulate 
the  same  idea  as  follows :  — 

(3)  I  ask  all  wise  and  learned  persons  to  attend  to  the 
remark  I  am  about  to  make. 

This  is  undoubtedly  not  poetry,  not  indeed  because  it  is  un- 
metrical,  but  because  it  is  matter-of-fact  and  unemotional. 
Admitting,  therefore,  (1)  to  be  poetry,  and  (3)  to  be  no 
poetry,  we  claim  that  (2)  should  much  more  reasonably  be 
classed  with  (1)  than  with  (3).  And  if  this  is  true,  we  can- 
not maintain  that  metre  is  a  part  of  the  essence  of  poetry. 

It  must  indeed  be  admitted  that  certain  types  of  poetry  de- 
pend so  largely  upon  metre  that  they  would  cease  to  be  poetry 
if  they  lost  it.  But  this  is  due  to  the  fact  that  in  these  cases 
the  emotional  tone  essential  to  poetry  is  sounded  by  the 
metre  itself  and  is  inseparable  from  it ;  so  that  in  losing  the 


THE  DEFINITION  OF  POETRY  13 

metre  we  lose  the  emotion  with  it.  The  poetical  charactei 
is  destroyed  not  precisely  by  the  absence  of  metre,  but  rather 
by  the  absence  of  the  emotional  tone  that  in  such  poetry  van- 
ishes with  the  metre. 

Let  us  take,  for  example,  the  following  lines  of  Shelley:  — 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 

—  "  Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills." 

Let  us  change  this  to  read. 

Many  a  green  island  must  be  found  in  the  deep  wide  ocean  of 
human  misery. 

We  may  admit  that  the  poetry,  or  most  of  it,  has  fled  in  the 
second  reading.  The  reason  is  that  the  buoyant  pathos  sung 
in  the  song  of  Shelley  has  deserted  the  phrase  when  robbed  of 
its  music.  But  this  is  very  far  from  being  the  case  with  all 
poetry,  such  as  many  passages  in  "  The  Imitation  of  Christ," 
the  "  Gloria  in  excelsis,"  and  some  of  the  high-strung  prose 
in  Shakespeare's  plays.^ 

EXERCISES 

1.  Apply  the  definition  of  poetry  by  answering  the  following  ques- 
tions with  regard  to  the  poems  indicated  below  :  — 

(a)  What  is  the  chief  emotion  expressed  ? 

(b)  Can  it  be  called  a  noble  emotion  ? 

(c)  About  what  object  is  the  emotion  centred? 

(d)  What  is  the  thought  suggested  by  the  object  ? 
Golden  Treasury,  Nos.  LXVIII,  XCVI,  CLIV,  CCXX. 

2.  Criticize  the  following  definitions  of  poetry  in  the  light  of  the 
definition  given  in  the  foregoing  chapter  :  (1)  Are  they  reducible  to 
the  definition  given?  (2)  Is  any  essential  element  omitted,  or 
any  unessential  element  added  ? 

1  See  on  this  subject  Saintsbury,  "  History  of  Criticism,"  Vol.  Ill, 
p.  208. 


14  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

(rt)  Poetry  is  the  art  of  uniting  pleasure  with  truth,  by  call- 
ing imagination  to  the  aid  of  reason.  — Johnson. 

(6)  Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of 
the  best  and  happiest  minds.  —  Shelley,  "  Defense  of  Poetry." 

(c)  Poesis  est  imitatio  actionum  humanarum  cum  fictione.  — 
JuvENCius,  "  Ars  Dicendi.  " 

(d)  Poetry  is  the  concrete  and  artistic  expression  of  the  human 
mind  in  emotional  and  rhythmical  language.  —  Watts,  in  En- 
cyclopaedia Britannica. 

(e)  Poetry  is  idealised  emotion  expressed  in  the  language  of  emo- 
tion. —  H.  Spencer,  "  Essay  on  Style." 

(/)  Poetry  is  the  art  of  employing  words  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
produce  an  illusion  on  the  imagination  ;  the  art  of  doing  by  means 
of  words  what  the  painter  does  by  means  of  colours.  —  Macaulay, 
"On  Milton." 

(g)  Poetry  is  the  expression  in  beautiful  form  and  melodious 
language  of  the  best  thoughts  and  noblest  emotions  which  the  spec- 
tacle of  life  awakens  in  the  finest  souls.  —  Shairp,  "  The  Province 
of  Poetry." 

(h)  Poetry  is  thought  colored  by  strong  emotion,  expressed  in 
metre  and  overheard.  ^  —  J.  S.  Mill,  "  Thoughts  on  Poetry." 

(i)  Poetry  is  the  natural  impression  of  any  object  or  event  by  its 
vividness  exciting  an  involuntary  movement  of  imagination  and  pas- 
sion, and  producing  by  sympathy  a  certain  modulation  of  the  voice 
or  sounds  expressing  it.  —  Hazlitt,  "On  Poetry." 

(k)  A  poem  is  that  species  of  composition  which  is  opposed  to 
works  of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate  object  pleasure, 
not  truth.  —  Coleridge,  "  Biographia  Literaria,"  Chap.  XIV. 

(I)  Poetry  is  the  art  of  producing  pleasure  by  the  just  expression 
of  imaginative  thought  and  feeling  in  metrical  language. — 
CouRTHOPE,  "  Life  in  Poetry,  Law  in  Taste." 

1  In  saying  that  a  poem  is  not  heard  but  "  overheard,"  Mill  indicates  a 
trait  of  poetry  referred  to  in  the  following  chapter.  The  poet  does  not  ad- 
dress an  audience  as  does  the  orator,  but  rather  contemplates  a  beautiful 
vision  and  sings  of  it  to  his  own  soul.  The  reader,  as  it  were,  overhears 
his  raptures. 


CHAPTER   II 
Emotion  in  Poetry 

1.  The  Emotions.  —  By  the  emotions  we  understand  all  those 
stirrings  of  the  soul  that  are  derived  not  merely  from  the 
senses,  but  from  the  intellectual  perception  of  an  object,  and 
variously  designated  by  the  terms,  emotions,  passions,  senti- 
ments, and  the  like.  These  various  emotions  in  their  simpler 
forms  are:  sorrow,  resignation,  sadness,  despair,  discontent ; 
anger,  hate,  revenge,  aversion ;  courage,  fear,  anxiety,  confi- 
dence ;  love,  friendship,  affection,  sympathy,  piety,  veneration, 
awe,  esteem,  joy,  peace,  contentment,  cheerfulness,  and  count- 
less others.  The  emotions,  as  we  experience  them,  not  only 
range  through  every  grade  of  intensity,  but  are  often  highly 
complex,  the  simpler  emotions,  such  as  those  indicated, 
combining  in  most  unexpected  ways  which  seem  to  defy 
analysis.  Hence  it  is  often  no  easy  matter  to  define  with 
nicety  the  emotion  expressed  in  a  poem  ;  sometimes  it  might 
be  best  described  as  a  certain  exalted  or  high-keyed  state  of 
soul  in  regarding  a  subject. 

These  emotions,  though  never  evoked  without  an  intelligent 
motive,  may  be  more  or  less  spontaneous  ;  that  is,  on  beholding 
a  beautiful  object,  we  may  conceive  an  emotion  without 
realizing  distinctly  what  we  have  apprehended  in  the  object 
to  create  the  feeling.  It  is  the  province  of  the  poet  to 
penetrate  to  this  motive,  and  suggest  it  to  the  consciousness 
of  the  reader. 

2.  Poetry  Emotional.  —  When  we  say  that  poetry  is 
emotional,  we  mean,  not  merely  that  it  contains  incidentally 

15 


16  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

some  emotional  coloring,  but  that  the  expression  of  emotion 
belongs  to  its  very  essence  and  is  its  specific  object.  This  is 
of  first  importance  in  the  study  of  our  subject;  for  it  is  in 
this  respect  precisely  that  poetry  differs  from  prose,  whose 
primary  function  is  not  to  express  emotion,  but  to  communi- 
cate fact  and  thought. 

Let  us  examine  this  in  detail :  — 

(a)  The  scientific  treatise  in  prose  contains  purely  abstract, 
unemotional  thought,  such  as  the  demonstration  of  a  theorem 
or  of  the  laws  of  nature,  and  hence  of  all  forms  is  the 
farthest  removed  from  poetry. 

(6)  Strictly  literary  compositions,  such  as  the  literary 
essay,  history,  biography,  and  the  like,  are  indeed  tinctured 
with  emotion,  and  it  is  this  that  constitutes  their  distinctive 
quality  as  literature.  Yet  even  in  these  cases  the  proper 
end  of  prose  is  kept  uppermost,  viz.,  to  communicate  thought 
or  fact,  —  and  the  emotion  is  merely  incidental  and  subsidi- 
ary. On  the  other  hand,  the  poet's  first  thought  is  not  to 
address  the  reader,  but  to  express  the  enthusiasm  he  feels  in 
contemplating  a  fact  or  a  thought.  The  emotion  is  every- 
where ;  it  gathers  up  thought,  images,  incidents,  —  suffuses 
them  with  its  own  glow,  molds  them  into  new  combinations, 
transforms  them  with  an  idealized  existence. 

(c)  The  prose  story  runs  somewhat  nearer  to  poetry  in  re- 
spect to  emotion ;  but  even  here  the  same  general  distinction 
may  be  observed,  if  we  attend  to  the  spirit  of  the  composition 
Tather  than  to  the  letter.  The  story  in  prose  differs  from 
the  poetic  narrative  in  this,  that  its  avowed  end  is  to  tell  the 
story.  It  may  indeed,  and  often  does,  portray  an  emotional 
situation,  and  the  writer  may  select  incidents,  details,  and 
coloring  to  emphasize  the  emotion.  But  he  does  not  hold 
himself  in  a  professedly  emotional  state  towards  his  narrative. 
He  is  giving  information  about  his  characters  or  their  environ- 
ment ;  he  is  conscious  of  an  audience ;  he  is  not  singing  in 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  17 

his  own  heart.  This  at  least  is  not  his  primary  purpose. 
But  this  precisely  is  the  attitude  of  the  poet.  The  prose 
story-teller,  as  it  were,  exhibits  his  subject  to  an  outsider; 
the  poet  flings  himself  into  the  situation  and  feels  with  it 
and  for  it ;  he  contemplates  rather  than  narrates,  and  pours 
forth  his  story  as  he  feels  it.  And  so  too  when  we  read  a 
narrative  poem,  we  approach  it  in  a  condition  of  mind  quite 
different  from  our  attitude  towards  a  story  in  prose.  In- 
stinctively we  prepare  ourselves  to  be  swept  into  the  emotion 
and  carried  where  it  leads.  If  we  read  a  poem  mainly  to 
learn  the  incidents  set  forth,  not  only  are  we  in  no  critical 
attitude,  but  we  are  not  in  the  proper  mood  for  reading 
poetry  at  all,  nor  the  mood  demanded  of  us  by  the  poet. 

To  illustrate  this  difference  between  prose  and  poetic  narra- 
tive, we  may  compare  the  opening  lines  of  Maupassant's  "  Neck- 
lace "  and  of  Tennyson's  "Captain."  The  former  begins  as 
follows :  — 

She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls  who,  as  if  by 
an  error,  are  born  into  a  family  of  clerks.  She  had  no  dowry,  no 
expectations,  no  means  of  being  known,  understood,  loved,  wedded 
by  any  rich  and  distinguished  man,  and  she  let  herself  be  married 
to  a  minor  clerk  at  the  Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

The  poem  of  Tennyson  begins  :  — 

Brave  the  Captain  was  ;  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew. 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Sailors  bold  and  true. 

If  we  try  to  catch  the  difference  in  tone  between  these  two 
passages,  we  shall  recognize  that  the  former  is  matter-of-fact ;  the 
latter  is  frankly  emotional.  The  poet  is  interested  not  so  much  in 
declaring  that  the  Captain  was  brave,  as  in  giving  utterance  to  his 
enthusiasm  about  that  fact. 

Again,  there  is  the  line  from  Tennyson, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud. 


18  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

If  we  pronounce  these  words  merely  by  way  of  calling  to  the  per- 
son addressed,  they  become  simple  prose;  they  are  poetry  when 
uttered  in  a  remote,  emotional  tone  with  no  expectation  of  a  reply.^ 

(d)  There  are  passages  of  impassioned  prose  that  approach 
even  more  nearly  to  poetry  than  the  preceding,  and  .hence 
often  go  by  the  name  of  prose-poetry.  Some  of  these 
are  nothing  more  than  poetry  in  disguise,  lines  that  have 
been  robbed  of  the  important  assistance  which  metre  lends 
to  the  expression  of  emotion,  though  in  substance  poetic. 
Indeed,  we  should  not  be  wrong  in  terming  such  passages 
simply  poetry ;  if  we  do  not  do  so  habitually,  it  is  because 
metre  is  the  accepted  vehicle  for  poetic  expression,  and  we 
are  prone  to  cling  to  external  conventions  in  everyday 
speech,  rather  than  to  the  internal  essence  of  things. 

3.  Poetry  Nobly  Emotional.  —  It  is  not  sufficient  that  poetry 
be  emotional ;  the  emotion  must  be  noble.  This  principle, 
which  was  examined  in  the  preceding  chapter,  must  be  con- 
sidered in  its  practical  bearing  on  poetry.  It  must  be  noted 
in  the  first  place  that  the  nobility  of  any  primary  emotion 
depends  upon  the  object  that  excites  it,  and  we  cannot  rightly 
estimate  the  former  without  considering  it  in  its  relations  to 
the  latter.  There  is  nothing  that  can  ennoble  the  sentiment 
of  love  or  admiration,  if  directed  to  what  is  unlovely  or.  not 
admirable ;  and.  hatred  and  scorn  may  be  as  noble  as  love  at 
its  best,  if  the  object  that  we  hate  and  scorn  is  really  hateful 
and  contemptible.  Premising  this  we  may  consider  the  fol- 
lowing details. 

(a)  The  emotion  proper  to  poetry  must  not  be  immoral, 
that  is,  must  not  imply  sympathy  with  what  is  immoral. 
Several  views  of  the  question  require  our  attention. 

1  See  on  this  whole  subject  F.  N.  Scott,  in  Mod.  Lang.  Assoc.  Publica- 
tion, Vol.  19,  p.  250,  from  whom  this  example  is  taken.  Also  Mill's 
"  Thoughts  on  Poetry  and  its  Varieties."  (Dissertations  and  Discussions, 
Vol.  I.) 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  19 

The  first  is  an  ethical  consideration.  Whatever  theory 
we  may  hold  about  the  essentials  of  art,  it  must  certainly 
remain  true  that  if  art  offends  against  morality,  the  former 
must  yield  to  the  superior  claims  of  the  latter.  Any  poem 
or  other  art-product  that  becomes  a  moral  menace  to  the 
normal  man  forfeits  its  right  to  be  exhibited  to  the  world  at 
large.  The  general  purpose  of  the  author,  even  though  it  be 
noble,  cannot  justify  him  in  using  scandalous  means  to 
achieve  his  purpose.  We  may,  if  we  must,  call  such  a  poem 
good  art,  but,  even  so,  it  is  bad  morality.  We  may  say  that 
art  exists  for  art's  sake,  and  that  aesthetic  principles  are  not 
moral  principles;  but,  after  all,  though  art  may  exist  for  it- 
self, it  does  not  exist  by  itself  and  alone;  other  things  vastly 
more  momentous  than  art  enter  into  the  life  of  man,  and, 
when  art  tends  to  vitiate  these  higher  ends  of  life,  it  has  no 
more  right  to  exhibit  itself  before  the  world  than  the  crimi- 
nal who  is  a  menace  to  society  has  a  right  to  be  at  large. 

The  second  consideration  is  aesthetic  and  more  pertinent 
to  our  study.  Kot  only  ethical  principles  but  the  canons  of 
art  itself  prohibit  the  embodiment  of  an  immoral  conception. 
We  can  no  more  divorce  what  is  artistic  from  what  is  moral 
than  we  can  divorce  art  and  truth.  It  is  indeed  true  that  a 
poem  may  not  enter  into  the  province  of  morals  at  all,  not 
directly  at  least  (see  Preface),  and  in  this  case,  no  doubt, 
they  move  apart,  in  different  planes ;  but  when  art  touches 
the  conduct  of  life,  it  must  be  true  to  the  essential  moral 
laws,  just  as  it  must  be  true  to  the  physical  laws  of  nature, 
when  dealing  with  the  life  of  nature.  It  is  false  art  to  hold 
up  a  distorted  ideal  of  conduct. 

Thirdly:  It  may  be  objected  that  the  conception  embodied 
in  a  poem  may  be  offensive  under  one  aspect,  and  pleasing 
under  another,  —  may  be  offensive  morally,  and  at  the  same 
time  gratifying  aesthetically.  But  we  must  ask  ourselves 
in  what  does  this  aesthetic  aspect  consist.     If  what  pleases 


20  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

is  the  poet's  expression  alone,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that 
this  is  admiration  merely  of  the  external  and  formal  element 
of  the  poem,  not  of  the  essential  and  vital  poetry  in  it.  — 
Or,  again,  the  poet  may  be  said  to  please  by  putting  before 
us  what  is  admirable  though  in  an  immoral  personage,  by 
exhibiting,  for  instance,  the  tenderness  and  pathos  of  illegiti- 
mate love.  And  in  this  case  we  hold  that  any  undue  em- 
phasis laid  upon  the  immoral  aspect  of  his  subject  detracts 
from  the  tenderness  and  pathos  which  it  was  his  purpose  to 
portray,  and  hence  is  an  artistic  sin,  as  obscuring,  not  help- 
ing the  effect.^ 

Fourthly  :  We  must,  however,  note  that  a  vicious  object 
may  subserve  a  noble  emotion  in  two  ways :  first,  if  it  is 
so  depicted  as  to  create  a  just  abhorrence  in  the  mind;^ — 
and  secondly,  when  the  repulsive  object  merely  serves  the 
purpose  of  contrast,  to  throw  into  higher  relief  the  noble 
emotion  that  is  the  prevailing  motive  of  the  poem.  In  any 
case  the  poet  must  make  it  apparent  that  his  sympathy 
lies  not  with  the  moral  evil.  This  does  not  entail  the 
necessity  of  bringing  the  evil  character  to  an  evil  end,  but 
of  marking  distinctly  where  the  evil  is  and  not  disguising 
it  under  the  semblance  of  goodness.  ''  An  artist  who  leaves 
it  doubtful  whether  he  recognizes  the  distinction  between 
good  and  evil  at  all,  or  who  detects  in  all  his  characters 
so  much  evil  that  the  reader's  sympathies  must  either  be 
entirely  passive  or  side  with  what  is  evil,  is  blind  to 
artistic  as  well  as  to  moral  laws." ' 

The  satires  of  Juvenal  depict  vice,  but  the  purpose  is  to  hold 
it  up  to  scorn,  to  the  '^  rigidi  censura  cachinni."     The  characters 

1  See  Francis  Thompson,"  A  Renegade  Poet  and  Other  Essays,"  p.  209. 

2  Evil  regarded  in  its  essential  nature  may  be  ugly ;  but,  shown  in 
the  action  of  a  comedy  to  be  nugatory  and  ridiculous,  it  ceases  to  be  ugly ; 
it  is  an  element  in  a  fact  which  is  beautiful. — Butcher,  "Aristotle's 
Theory,  etc.,"  p.  364. 

3  R,  H.  Hutton  on  "  George  Eliot." 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  21 

of  Goneril  and  Regan  in  King  Lear  are  represented  not  so  much 
for  their  own  sake  as  to  develop  the  higher  traits  in  Lear  and 
Cordelia.  The  same  is  true  of  Thersites  in  the  Iliad.  On  the 
other  hand,  critics  have  often  marked  it  as  defective  art  in  Par- 
adise Lost  that  the  sympathies  have  a  tendency  to  lean  towards 
the  majestic  figure  of  Satan.  The  poet,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
that  towering  personality,  sometimes  overlooks  the  shadow  of 
reprobation  under  which  he  should  be  kept  in  order  to  satisfy  the 
artistic  requirements  of  the  situation. 

The  artistic  sin  of  reveling  to  excess  in  the  portrayal  of  moral 
deformities,  even  when  they  are  held  up  for  reprobation,  may  be 
found  in  the  works  of  the  pre-Shakespearian  dramatists.  Outrage, 
crime,  furious  passion  overshadow  every  scene ;  there  is  nothing 
left  to  admire  but  intensity.  In  "  The  Jew  of  Malta,"  "  Barabbas 
has  been  treated  by  the  Christians  like  a  beast  and  he  hates 
them  like  a  beast."  "  The  hero  in  '  Tamburlaine  the  Great '  is 
seated  on  a  chariot  drawn  by  chained  kings,  burns  towns,  drowns 
women  and  children,  puts  men 'to  the  sword,  and  finally,  seized 
with  an  invisible  sickness,  raves  in  monstrous  outcries  against  the 
Gods,  whose  hands  afflict  his  soul  and  whom  he  would  fain  de- 
throne." 1    This  is  magnificent  -but  it  is  not  art. 

(b)  A  noble  emotion  must  not  be  narrowing  or  de- 
pressing to  the  soul.  Such  emotions  are  fear,  anxiety, 
discontent,  and  the  like.  These  can  find  a  place  in  poetry 
only  on  the  conditions  laid  down  under  the  preceding 
head. 

For  example,  in  "  King  John,"  Shakespeare  creates  a  hero  who 
is  precisely  the  victim  of  such  narrow  passions.  The  King  is 
infirm  of  purpose,  even  cowardly,  in  contriving  the  death  of 
Arthur,  and  comes  to  his  end  in  a  state  of  collapse.  The  play 
as  a  whole  leaves  a  narrowing  and  depressing  effect  upon  the 
mind.  The  more  clearly  we  apprehend  the  character  of  John 
as  represented,  the  less  satisfactory  the  play  seems  from  an  artistic 
point  of  view. 

1  Taine,  "  History  of  English  Literature,"  Book  II,  Chap.  II. 


22  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

In  this  connection  a  word  must  be  said  of  tragic  poetry. 
It  is  indeed  true  that  tragedy,  according  to  Aristotle,  arouses 
in  us  fear  as  well  as  pity.  But  we  are  told  in  "  The  Poetics  '' 
that  tragedy  purges  these  two  emotions  in  the  soul,  purges 
them  of  the  element  of  depression,  of  the  narrowing  ele- 
ment, and  raises  them  thus  into  a  higher  and  the  proper 
poetic  plane.  The  fear  experienced  by  one  who  witnesses 
a  tragedy  is  very  different  from  the  shrinking  fear  attend- 
ing personal  or  real  danger.  In  so  far  as  we  fear  for  the 
characters  of  the  drama,  the  unreality  of  the  situation,  its 
purely  imaginative  character  removes  the  pain  from  the 
fear  we  feel ;  and  in  so  far  as  we  fear  for  ourselves  as  we 
witness  a  tragedy,  the  remoteness  and  vagueness  of  the 
danger  leaves  the  real  fear  hardly  more  than  a  graver 
view  of  human  life  and  its  vicissitudes.^ 

(c)  We  likewise  exclude  from  poetry  purely  self -regarding 
emotions.  This  does  not  forbid  the  poet  to  record  in  verse 
his  own  personal  feelings,  for  to  do  so  is  of  the  very  nature 
of  lyric  poetry.  But  it  does  prohibit  any  emotion  in  which 
the  regard  of  the  writer  is  fixed  exclusively  on  self  or  on 
the  private,  personal  phase  of  the  experience,  rather  than 
on  the  universal  character  of  the  emotion  he  feels,  as  com- 
mon to  all  men.  His  reader  must  be  able  to  find  in  the  poem 
an  interpretation  of  his  own  heart. 

We  might  take  the  tragedy  of  Hecuba  as  an  example  of  how 
hatred  can  be  narrowed  into  a  purely  personal  matter  and  so  lose 
its  dignity  as  a  poetic  motive.  Hecuba  gloats  over  the  sufferings 
of  Polymestor,  her  enemy;  her  revenge  is  too  selfish  to  be  noble; 
she  loses  all  sight  of  the  broader  view  of  satisfied  justice  or  atone- 
ment for  wrong  done,  and  feeds  on  merely  the  personal  gratifica- 
tion of  her  victory. 2 

1  See,  on  Aristotle's  observation,  p.  105.  Also  Butcher,  "Aristotle's 
Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art,"  p.  236. 

2  See  also  p.  139. 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  23 

(d)  Poetry  excludes  all  purely  sensual  emotion,  i.e.  what 
is  mere  gratification  of  the  eye,  ear,  or  lower  senses,  or  of 
the  animal  appetites. 

As  an  example  of  how  a  poem  may  stray  into  this  sort  of  de- 
generation, we  may  cite  the  well  known  lines  from  Keats'  "  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes." 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince  and  plum  and  gourd, 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates :  .  .  . 

Like  much  of  the  poetry  of  Keats,  this  is  nothing  more  than  an 
idealized  appeal  to  the  inferior  senses,  without  any  justification  from 
the  context  of  the  poem.  The  elegance  of  the  diction  may  rescue  it 
from  coarseness,  but  cannot  change  the  meaning  of  what  is  written. 

(e)  The  emotion  must  not  be  merely  trivial.  Here  let  us 
note  that  an  emotion  may  have  varying  degrees  of  nobility. 
We  should  not  confine  our  conception  of  what  is  noble,  as 
Euskin  seems  to  do,  to  the  great  overpowering  emotions, 
such  as  "  Love,  Veneration,  Admiration,  Joy,  and  their  op- 
posites.  Hate,  Indignation,  Horror,  and  Grief."  ^  The  thou- 
sand lighter  emotions  that  pass  over  our  souls  in  the  routine 
of  daily  life  may  all,  at  least  to  some  slight  extent,  be  noble 
if  occupied  with  worthy  objects.  Nobility,  in  the  aspect  we 
are  now  considering,  may  run  down  in  the  scale  of  dignity 
or  elevation  till  it  approaches  the  trivial.  This  is  the  line 
of  demarcation.  What  is  trivial  cannot  be  called  noble.  But 
a  noble  emotion  may  still  be  quiet,  or  simple,  or  even  playful 
so  long  as  it  retains  that  serious  or  purposeful  suggestion 
that  saves  it  from  frivolity.  But  when  verse  sinks  below 
all  recognizable  nobility,  when  it  becomes  merely  and  purely 

1  "  Modern  Painters,"  Part  IV,  Chap  I. 


24  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

trivial,  then  we  say  that  it  ceases  to  be  poetry  and  becomes 
mere  verse. 

As  an  example  of  the  latter  let  us  note  this  triolet  of  Austin 
Dobson. 

These  are  leaves  of  my  rose, 
Pink  petals  I  treasure ; 
There  is  more  than  one  knows 
In  these  leaves  of  my  rose. 
Oh,  the  joys  :  oh,  the  woes, 
They  are  quite  beyond  measure. 
These  are  leaves  of  my  rose, 
Pink  petals  I  treasure. 

This  is  most  undoubtedly  trivial  emotion.  Its  trivial  flippancy  is 
its  only  motive.  Hence,  while  it  is  dainty  verse,  we  are  not  ac- 
customed to  dignify  it  by  the  name  of  poetry.  Let  us  put  by  the 
side  of  this,  say,  Gray's  verses  "On  a  Favourite  Cat"  (Golden 
Treasury,  CLVI).  This  is  light  and  playful,  yet  if  we  compare  it 
with  the  above  triolet,  we  will  exempt  it  from  the  charge  of 
triviality.  Poems  lying  midway  between  these  two  are  on  the 
border-line  between  verse  and  poetry,  and  in  individual  cases 
it  may  be  difficult  to  decide  to  which  class  they  should  be  assigned. 

4.  The  Intensity  of  Emotion.  —  We  turn  now  to  another 
consi4eration.  The  intensity  of  the  emotion  must  be  dis- 
tinguished from  its  degree  of  nobility.  The  latter  is  a 
matter  of  quality;  the  former  a  matter  of  quantity.  An 
emotion  that  rises  to  no  great  height  of  sublimity  may  yet 
be  expressed  with  great  fullness,  there  may  be  much  of  it ; 
and  we  call  the  emotion  intense.  On  the  other  hand,  an 
emotion  lofty  in  itself,  such  as  pathos,  may  be  treated 
lightly,  there  may  be  little  of  it ;  and  we  call  the  emotion 
quiet  or  suppressed.  In  general  we  may  say  that  the  poetry 
of  Shelley  is  intense,  the  poetry  of  Gray  quiet. 

A  high  pitch  of  emotional  intensity  is  not  of  itself  a  po- 
etical merit.      Rather,  the  principle  is  that  the  degree  of 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  25 

intensity  should  be  appropriate  to  the  subject  expressed,  or, 
in  other  words,  that  the  poet  should  be  neither  intensely 
emotional  without  sufficient  motive,  nor  feebly  emotional 
when  his  theme  calls  for  strong  passion.  Of  this  more  is 
to  be  said  in  the  chapter  on  "  Thought  in  Poetry." 

Beginners  are  often  perplexed  in  estimating  the  emotional 
intensity  of  a  poem;  and  indeed  there  is  no  external  mark  by 
which  we  may  judge.  We  cannot  rely  always  upon  the  amount  of 
feeling  that  the  poem  excites  in  our  own  soul,for  this  depends  largely 
upon  each  one's  personal  character.  Much  less  can  we  gauge  emo- 
tion by  such  rhetorical  devices  as  exclamations,  apostrophe,  inver- 
sion, and  the  like ;  intense  emotion  is  often  expressed  simply  and 
briefly,  as  in  the  lines 

"  But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh  ! 
The  difference  to  me." 

What  is  needed  is  critical  acumen,  the  insight  that  enables  us,  in- 
dependently of  our  own  temperament,  to  enter  into  and  measure 
the  emotion  of  another.  This  power  can  be  developed  only  by 
reading  appreciatively  the  best  poetry  under  the  direction  of  a 
competent  guide. 

Compare  with  the  simple  lines  from  Wordsworth  the  following 
from  Ambrose  Phillips,  ridiculed  by  Pope,^  in  which  the  feeble 
emotion  is  eked  out  with  exclamation  and  repetition  to  a  degree 
of  absm'dity. 

Ah  me,  the  while :  ah  me,  the  luckless  day : 
Ah  luckless  lad,  the  rather  might  I  say  ; 
Ah  silly  I :  more  silly  than  my  sheep, 
Which  on  the  flowery  plains  I  once  did  keep. 

—  Pastoral. 
Sometimes  the  emotion  springs  from  the  imaginative  elements  in 
the  poem,  as  in  Blake,  Shelley,  Shakespeare ;  thus  in  Macbeth :  — 

Why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion, 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs? 

—  Act  I,  So.  3, 11.  134  ff. 
1  In  "  The  Guardian,"  No.  40. 


26  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

In  other  cases  the  rhythmical  effect  seems  to  carry  the  emotion,  as 
in  these  languorous  lines  from  Swinburne. 

Let  your  hands  meet  round  the  weight  of  my  head  ; 
Lift  ye  my  feet  as  the  feet  of  the  dead  ; 
For  the  flesh  of  my  body  is  molten,  the  limbs  of  it  molten  as  lead. 

—  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon." 

Or  again  it  may  be  the  concept  itself  more  than  the  mode  of  expres- 
sion that  reaches  the  heart.  The  climax  of  intensity  in  Lear's 
speech  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  is  reached  in  the  simple  words, 
"  Oh  fool,  I  shall  go  mad,"  and  the  piercing  utterance  of  Lady 
Macbeth  is  couched  in  diction  that  is  almost  commonplace. 
•  "  Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so 

much  blood  in  him." 

—  Act  V,  So.  1, 11.  43  n. 

The  following  lines  are  the  conclusion  of  Crashaw's  "  The 
Flaming  Heart"  in  honor  of  St.  Theresa,  of  which  poem  Mr. 
Saintsbury  writes  that  it  "  culminates  in  the  most  unerring  ex- 
plosion of  passionate  feeling  to  be  found  in  English,  perhaps  in  all 
poetry." 

Live  here,  great  Heart ;  and  love  and  dy  and  kill ; 
And  bleed  and  wound ;  and  yeild  and  conquer  still, 
Let  this  immortall  life  wherere  it  comes 
Walk  in  a  crowd  of  loves  and  Martyrdomes. 
Let  mystick  Deaths  wait  on't ;  and  wise  soules  be 
The  love-slain  witnesses  of  this  life  of  thee. 
O  sweet  incendiary !  shew  here  thy  art, 
■  Upon  this  carcasse  of  a  hard,  cold  hart. 
Let  all  thy  scatter'd  shafts  of  light,  that  play 
Among  the  leaves  of  thy  larg  Books  of  day, 
Combin'd  against  this  Brest  at  once  break  in 
And  take  away  from  me  my  self  and  sin. 
This  gratious  Robbery  shall  thy  bounty  be  ; 
And  my  best  fortunes  such  fair  spoiles  of  me. 
O  thou  undanted  daughter  of  desires  ! 
By  all  thy  dowr  of  Lights  and  Fires ; 
By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove ; 
By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love ; 


EMOTION  IN  POETRY  27 

By  thy  larg  draughts  of  intellectuall  day, 

And  by  thy  thirsts  of  love  more  large  than  they ; 

By  all  thy  brim-fill' d  Bowles  of  feirce  desire, 

By  thy  last  Morning's  draught  of  liquid  fire ; 

By  the  full  kingdome  of  that  finall  kisse 

That  seiz'd  thy  parting  Soul,  and  seal'd  thee  his ; 

By  all  the  Heav'ns  thou  hast  in  him 

(Fair  sister  of  the  Seraphim  !) 

By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  Thee ; 

Leave  nothing  of  my  Self  in  me. 

Let  me  so  read  thy  life,  that  I 

Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  dy. 

For  another  splendid  expression  of  intense  emotion  see 
Francis  Thompson's  "  Hound  of  Heaven '' ;  —  also  Spenser's 
"  Epithalamium, "  —  Shakespeare's  "  King  Lear,"  Act  III,  — 
Shelley's  "  Adonais." 

6.  Variety  of  Emotion.  —  A  short  poem  may  confine  itself 
to  the  expression  of  a  single  emotion,  as  in  Tennyson's 
"  Mariana,"  or  emotions  closely  related,  as  in  Wordsworth's 
lines  "  Written  in  Early  Spring "  (Golden  Treasury, 
CCCXIX).  In  a  longer  poem,  too,  one  note  must  be  dominant 
in  correspondence  with  the  central  idea  of  the  poem  ;  but 
subordinated  to  this  we  look  for  variety  both  in  the  character 
and  the  intensity  of  the  emotions,  —  a  change  from  joy  to 
pathos,  from  peace  to  turmoil,  and  from  strong  passion  to 
ease  and  repose. 

Thus  Vergil,  in  the  descent  of  iEneas  into  Hades,  portrays  first 
the  horrors  of  the  vestibulum,  secondly  the  grim  surliness  of  Charon, 
thirdly  the  pathos  of  the  infants  and  of  the  lovers  in  the  Fields  of 
Mourning,  then  the  lingering  delight  of  the  shades  of  the  Trojan 
warriors,  and  so  on ;  and  if  we  take  a  larger  view  of  the  "  iEneid,"  we 
observe  that  the  first  book  could  be  characterized  by  simple  dignity, 
the  second  by  tragic  suffering,  the  fourth  by  passionate  pathos,  the 
sixth  by  a  kind  of  romantic  mysticism.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
austere  stateliness  of  '.'  Paradise  Lost"  may  offend  by  being  too  un- 


28  THE  NATURE   OF  POETRY 

flagging,  may  oppress  the  reader  after  a  time  and  thus  begin  to 
lose  its  power  over  his  emotions. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Name  accurately  the  emotion  expressed  in  the  following  poems 
and  range  them  in  the  order  of  emotional  intensity  :  — 

(a)  Golden  Treasury,  Nos.  CIT,  CCCXXXV,  XXVI. 

(6)  Golden  Treasury,  Nos.  CXLIII,  LXXIV,  CXCVII,  CC. 

2.  Explain  the  principle  by  which  we  can  justify 

(a)  such  an  emotion  as  is  represented  by  Shylock  in  the  "  Mer- 
chant of  Venice ; " 

(b)  the  emotion  portrayed  in  Browning's   "  Mesmerism." 

3.  Is   Tennyson's   "  Lotos-Eaters "    a   satisfactory    poem   with 
reference  to  the  nobility  of  emotion  portrayed? 

4.  Point  out   defective  lapses  from   the   emotional  quality  of 
poetry  to  the  matter-of-fact  quality  of  prose  in  the  following  :  — 

Golden  Treasury,  Nos.  CCLXIII,  CCXCIX,  CCCXX. 

5.  Arrange  according  to  the  nobility  of  the  emotion' the  follow- 
ing passages  from  King  Lear :  — 

(a)  "  Hear,  nature,  hear  —  "  Act  I,  Sc.  4,  11.  297  ff. 

(b)  "  O,  reason  not  the  need—  "  Act  11,  Sc.  4,  11.  267  ff. 

(c)  "  Let  the  great  Gods  —  "  Act  III,  Sc.  3,  11.  49  ff . 

(d)  "  There  thou  mightst  behold  the  great  image  of  authority." 
Act  IV,  Sc.  6, 11.  162  ff. 

(e)  "  Come,  let's  away  to  prison  —  "  Act  V,  Sc.  3, 11.  8  ff. 


CHAPTER   III 

Imagination  in  Poetry 

I.   The  Imaginative  Faculty 

1.  Definition.  —  The  imagination  in  its  essential  function 
is  defined  to  be  the  faculty  of  forming  mental  representations 
of  sensible  objects  independently  of  the  presence  of  the  latter. 
We  more  commonly  think  of  the  imagination  as  representing 
objects  that  appeal  to  the  sense  of  sight,  but  any  sensation 
at  all  may  be  reproduced  by  the  imagination.  Thus,  seated 
by  a  winter  fire,  I  may  call  up  the  image  of  the  beauty  of 
summer  fields;  I  may  hear  the  song  of  birds,  catch  the 
fragrance  of  the  breath  of  spring,  and  thus  realize  in  myself 
the  exultation  of  soul  that  the  new  life  of  nature  suggests. 
Such  is  the  re-creative  power  of  this  faculty  when  fully  de- 
veloped. 

The  imagination  may  be  considered  from  many  points  of 
view.  Before  considering  its  precise  bearing  on  poetry,  it 
may  be  helpful  to  note  one  or  two  distinctions  that  are 
philosophical  rather  than  poetical. 

2.  Productive  and  Reproductive.  —  First :  We  may  distin- 
guish the  productive  and  the  reproductive  imagination.  The 
latter  term  is  employed  to  designate  the  power  of  forming 
mental  representations  of  objects  which  have  been  perceived 
before.  The  productive  imagination  is  the  power  of  putting 
together  details  so  as  to  form  an  image  such  as  has  never 
been  actually  before  the  senses,  as  if  I  join  the  head  and 
trunk  of  a  man  to  the  body   of  a  horse  and   imagine   a 

29 


30  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

Centaur.  It  is  generally  admitted  that  the  mind  has  no 
power  to  imagine  an  object  absolutely  new  in  every  respect ; 
but  by  assembling  a  variety  of  features  borrowed  from 
diverse  objects  we  may  construct  an  image  that  is  new  as  a 
whole.  Thus,  one  born  blind  can  form  no  representation  of 
the  quality  of  color;  whereas  one  familiar  with  objects  of 
sight  can  make  combinations  never  seen  before,  such  as  the 
golden  branch  in  the  grove  of  Avernus,  or  the  rain  of  fire- 
flakes  in  Dante's  "Inferno." 

3.  Active  and  Passive.  —  Secondly  :  we  may  distinguish  be- 
tween what  has  been  well  called  the  active  and  the  passive 
imagination.  The  latter  is  the  power  to  summon  up  an 
image  when  it.  is  described  or  suggested  tons;  the  former 
is  the  power  to  evoke  an  image  on  our  own  initiative.  The 
passive  imagination  may  be  found  in  persons  endowed  with 
very  little  active  imagination.  The  former  gives  the  faculty 
of  reading  poetry  appreciatively  ;  the  latter  is  the  gift  of  the 
poet  himself. 

4.  Place  in  Poetry.  —  The  importance  of  imagination  in  the 
art  of  poetry  may  be  seen  from  the  fact  that  it  stands  re- 
lated to  it  under  a  twofold  aspect,  —  first,  inasmuch  as 
poetry  is  essentially  emotional,  and  secondly,  inasmuch  as 
it  is  an  expression  of  the  beautiful. 

For  it  is  a  well  recognized  fact  that  our  emotions  are 
not  stirred  by  what  is  abstract,  by  mere  thought,  mere 
reason.  We  do  not  come  to  admire  virtue  by  learning  its 
definition,  but  rather  by  seeing  virtue  in  the  concrete, 
visibly  embodied  in  an  object.  And  therefore,  in  order  to 
achieve  its  essential  purpose,  in  order  to  touch  the  emotions, 
poetry  must  present  the  sensible  object  to  our  minds 
and  so  bring  into  play  the  imaginative  faculty.  So,  too, 
beauty  is  invariably  associated  with  a  concrete  object,  at  least 
so  long  as  man  is  an  embodied  spirit.  It  is  a  misnomer  to 
speak  of  a  beautiful  theorem  in  geometry  or  a  beautiful 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  31 

thesis  in  metaphysics  or  of  a  beautiful  abstraction.  And 
consequently  from  this  point  of  view  also  (though  it  is  in 
the  end  reducible  to  the  former)  poetry,  being  the  expression 
of  the  beautiful,  must  rely  on  the  agency  of  the  imagination 
to  represent  the  beautiful  object. 

II.  The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  Poetry 

We  have  described  above  the  fundamental  process 
of  the  imagination,  viz.,  that  of  representing  mental  images. 
As  it  manifests  itself  in  the  province  of  poetry,  it  acts  in 
combination  with  other  faculties  of  the  soul.  It  is  guided 
or  stimulated  by  the  emotional  faculty,  by  the  intuitive 
judgment,  by  the  taste  or  critical  faculty,  and  these  operate 
together  in  such  a  variety  of  ways  and  with  such  a  variety 
of  results  that  it  becomes  difficult  to  analyze  the  processes 
at  all.  Without  any  attempt  at  such  analysis,  which  is  the 
province  of  psychology  rather  than  poetics,  let  us  merely 
describe  the  chief  results  of  this  complex  action  of  the 
imagination  and  other  faculties  of  the  soul  so  far  as  they 
affect  the  production  of  poetry. 

1.  Imagination  and  Fancy.  —  In  the  first  place,  criticism 
makes  a  distinction  between  two  manifestations  of  the  im- 
aginative faculty  in  poetry,  —  one  of  which  is  called  Imagi- 
nation proper,  and  the  other  Fancy.  These  terms  are  used 
to  designate  a  higher  and  a  lower  use  of  the  power.  The 
difference  between  them  will  become  more  apparent  as  we 
advance,  but  in  their  general  traits  they  may  be  described 
as  follows :  — 

The  Imagination  is  intense  and  serious ;  the  Fancy  more 
light  and  playful.  The  Imagination  penetrates  to  the  heart 
of  its  subject,  its  deeper  significance ;  the  Fancy  hovers  on 
the  surface  and  busies  itself  with  externals.  The  Imagi- 
nation acts  under  the  inspiration  of  emotion  and  absorbing 


32  THE  NATUBE  OF  POETRY 

vision  ;  the  Fancy  is  more  cool  and  calculating,  or  arbitrary, 
whimsical,  conventional,  artificial.^ 

Thus  when  Milton  writes  :  — 

"  The  white  pink  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet"  he  is  merely 
external  and  fanciful ;  when  Wordsworth  calls  the  daisy  "  Sweet 
silent  creature,"  he  is  penetrating  and  imaginative.  So,  too, 
Shakespeare's  description  of  theequipageof  Queen  Mab,  in  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet,"  is  playful,  and  hence  is  an  exercise  of  fancy :  — 

Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs, 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers, 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web. 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams. 

—  Act  I,  Sc.4, 11.  59ff. 

Compare  this  with  the  weird  intensity  of  the  description  in  the 
"  Ancient  Mariner,"  which  is  purely  imaginative,  as  the  image  of 
Death  in  the  gossamer  ship :  — 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

2.  The  Imaging  Power  and  the  Creative  Power  of  the  Im- 
aginative Faculty.  —  The  imaginative  faculty  in  poetry  also 
exercises  two  acts,  not  indeed  separate,  but  distinct  in 
idea;  viz.,  the  invention  of  images,  and  the  compo- 
sition or  association  of  these  images  into  an  imaginative 
whole.  We  shall  consider  each  of  these  acts  and  observe 
how  in  both  the  one  and  the  other  we  may  find  fancy 
and  imagination  proper. 

(a)  Tlie  Imaging  Power  is  that  exercise  of  the  imaginative 
faculty  by  which  it  calls  up  or  invents  the  sensible  details 

1  On  the  whole  subject  of  Imagination  and  Fancy,  see  Hunt,  "  Imagina- 
tion and  Fancy";  Wordsworth,  Introduction  to  1815  Edition  of  poems; 
Ruskin,  "  Modern  Painters,"  Part  III,  Sect.  2;  Westminster  Review,  Vol 
154,  p.  217. 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  33 

of  a  poem;  for  instance,  the  various  scenes,  actions,  or 
circumstances  of  a  narrative ;  the  images  in  which  the  poet 
conceives  his  thoughts,  reflections,  and  emotions;  and  in 
general  all  the  concrete  elements,  large  or  small,  that  go  to 
make  up  the  body  of  every  poem.  This  imaging  power,  as 
has  been  said,  may  appear  as  imagination  proper  or  as  fancy. 

It  is  called  imagination  proper  when  the  invention  is 
exercised  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion;  that  is, 
when  the  poet  is  absorbed  with  the  underlying  significance, 
of  the  image,  is  not  interested  in  its  color,  shape,  or  size,  or, 
if  in  these,  only  so  far  as  they  imply  something  deeper. 
Hence  it  appears  not  as  a  mere  image,  but  as  endowed  with 
emotional  or  spiritual  significance. 

The  fancy  images  an  object  in  a  lightly  emotional  mood, 
is  occupied  with  its  superficial,  conventional  qualities,  or 
examines  it  curiously  and  with  clever  ingenuity,  but  is  not 
absorbed  or  inspired  by  its  contemplation.  The  image  seems 
unnatural,  overstrained,  insincere,  or  at  least  not  serious. 

The  following  examples  will  help  the  student  to  realize  the 
different  effects  of  the  image  as  it  proceeds  from  imagination  and 
from  fancy.  The  first  are  fanciful,  because  they  manifest  curious 
and  far-fetched  conceptions,  rather  than  inspired  realizations. 

Let's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms  and  epitaphs, 
Make  dust  our  paper  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

—  "  Richard  II,"  Act  III,  Sc.  2,  11.  145  £f. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul,  * 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives. 

—  Herbert,  "Virtue." 

Compare  now  the  intensely  real  and  serious  imagery  of  the 

imagination  in  these  examples. 

Brightness  falls  from  the  air ; 

Queens  have  died  young  and  fair ; 

Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye. 

—  Nash,  "  A  Litany." 


84  THE  NATVRE  OF  POETRY 

Or  these   lines   in  which  Wordsworth  compares  the  "sweet  and 
virtuous  "  maid;  not  to  "  seasoned  timber,"  but  to 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye ; 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

Compare  also  the  beautiful,  but  merely  external  description  of 
the  golden  bough  in  the  ^neid,  which  is  an  exercise  of  fancy, 
with  the  intensely  real  and  piercing  description  of  the  souls  in 
Hades,  yearning  to  cross  to  "  the  farther  shore." 

quale  solet  silvis  brumali  frigore  viscum 

fronde  virere  nova,  quod  non  sua  seminat  arbos, 

et  croceo  fetu  teretes  circumdare  truncos ; 

talis  erat  species  auri  frondentis  opaca 

ilice,  sic  leni  crepitabat  bractea  vento. 

—  VI.  205  ff. 

stabant  orantes  primi  transmittere  cursum, 
tendebantque  manus  ripae  ulterioris  amore. 

—  VI.  313  f . 

These  lines  from  Thomson's  "  Winter "  are  unimpressive  be- 
cause the  writer  is  thinking  of  little  more  than  a  faithful  account 
of  external  details  : — 

Prone  from  the  dripping  cave  and  dumb  cascade 
The  pendent  icicle. 

The  following,  on  the  other  hand,  is  possessed  of  some  strange 
magical  power  over  the  feelings,  a  weird,  almost  painful  impression. 

Silent  icicles 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

—  Coleridge,  **  Frost  at  Midnight." 

Note  the  intermingling  of  fancy  and  imagination  in  these 
richly  imaged  lines  from  Aubrey  de  Vere's  "  Ode  to  the  Daffodil." 

Ere  yet  the  blossomed  sycamore 
With  golden  surf  is  curdled  o'er ; 
Ere  yet  the  birch  against  the  blue 
Her  silken  tissue  weaves  anew, — 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  35 

Thou  comest  while,  meteor-like  'mid  fens,  the  weed 

Swims  wan  in  light ;  while  sleet-showers  whitening  glare ; 

Weeks  ere,  by  river  brims,  new-furred  the  reed 
Leans  its  green  javelin  level  in  the  air. 


Torch-bearer  at  a  wedding  feast 

Whereof  thou  may'st  not  be  partaker, 

But  mime  at  most,  and  merrymaker ; 

Phosphor  of  an  ungrateful  sun 

That  rises  but  to  bid  thy  lamp  begone : 

Farewell !  I  saw 

Writ  large  on  woods  and  lawns  to-day  that  Law 

Which  back  remands  thy  race  and  thee 

To  hero-haunted  shades  of  dark  Persephone. 

Note.  —  The  extraordinary  imagery  of  Shelley's  "  Ode  to 
the  West  Wind  "  (for  instance  the  comparison  of  the  loose 
clouds  in  the  sky  to  the  earth's  decaying  leaves),  which  in 
a  less  intense  poem  would  seem  far-fetched  and  unnatural, 
is  perfectly  in  harmony  with  the  tumultuous  passion  of  the 
ode,  and  therefore  is  not  fanciful,  but  profoundly  imagina- 
tive.    This  principle  has  a  wide  application. 

It  is  also  to  be  noted  that  the  adjective  "  fanciful "  usually 
has  a  disparaging  connotation  which  is  not  always  attribut- 
able to  the  word  "  fancy.  "  Fancy, though  inferior  to  imagina- 
tion, is  not  always  a  blemish.  It  is  so  only  when  it  proceeds 
from  an  imperfect  realization  of  a  serious  subject,  as  in  the 
examples  from  Shakespeare  and  Herbert  quoted  above. 
But  the  poet  may  choose  to  play  lightly  with  his  theme, 
and  when  to  do  so  is  not  incongruous,  what  we  call  fancy 
cannot  be  considered  a  defect. 

Fancy  and  imagination  often  are  found  in  the  same  poem, 
as  in  Wordsworth's  "  Daisy,"  Milton's  "  L'Allegro,"  and  many 
others.  Yet  the  work  of  each  poet  is  apt  to  be  distin- 
guished by  a  prevailing  use  of  one  of  these  rather  than  the 


36  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

other.  Thus  Cowley,  Donne,  Crashaw,  and  the  so-called 
"  Metaphysical ''  poets  generally,  are  extravagantly  fanciful ; 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  the  so-called  "  Eomanticists, " 
chiefly  imaginative.  Shakespeare's  earlier  work  and  his 
"  euphuistic  "  compositions,  as  "  King  John,"  show  excellent 
examples  of  fancy ;  his  later  work  is  characterized  by 
imagination.  So,  too,  Horace  deals  in  fancy ;  Yergil  more 
often  than  Horace  in  imagination.  And  among  the  Greek 
poets,  Sophocles  we  should  call  an  imaginative  poet,  Aris- 
tophanes fanciful,  while  Euripides  would  seem  to  combine 
the  two  in  more  nearly  equal  proportion. 

(&)  The  Creative  Power  of  the  Imaginative  Faculty.  —  In 
poetry  the  imaginative  faculty  not  only  forms  images,  but 
combines  many  images  so  as  to  form  one  composite  imagina- 
tive impression.^  As  intimated  above,  it  is  not  an  act  of 
the  imaginative  faculty  alone;  the  imagination  cooperates 
with  the  judgment  and  other  mental  powers.  We  attribute 
it  to  the  imagination  because  of  the  important  part  played 
by  this  power  in  visualizing  the  subject  as  a  whole,  whereas 
in  composing  and  arranging  the  parts  or  details  of  a  prose 
treatise  the  logical  faculties  of  the  mind  are  uppermost. 

The  imagination  proper  is  the  really  effective  workman 
here.  It,  and  not  fancy,  does  the  distinctive  work  of  crea- 
tion. The  imagination  proper  in  the  act  of  composing  puts 
together  details  from  many  sources,  not  by  an  act  of  logic 
but  by  intuitive  insight.  The  poet,  stimulated  by  his 
emotional  mood,  conceives  his  whole  subject  imaginatively 
within  one  comprehensive  view,  all  its  parts  transfused 
with  the  dominating  significance  of  the  piece,  part  growing 
out   of    part   naturally   and   organically   and    contributing 

1 "  He  who  conceives  a  tragedy  puts  into  a  crucible  a  great  quantity,  so 
to  say,  of  impressions;  the  expressions  themselves,  conceived  on  other  oc- 
casions, are  fused  together  with  the  new  in  a  single  mass,  in  the  same  way 
as  we  cast  into  a  smelting  furnace  formless  pieces  of  bronze  and  moat 
precious  statuettes."  —  B.  Crock,  "  Esthetic,  "  p.  34. 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  87 

its  due  share  to  the  whole,  and  the  complete  effect  pro- 
ceeding, as  indeed  it  can  only  proceed,  not  from  deliberate 
calculation,  but  from  the  intensity  of  the  writer's  realization 
of  it  as  one  conception. 

Fanc}^,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not  properly  create.  It 
composes  piecemeal,  part  by  part.  Its  eye  is  fastened  ex- 
clusively on  the  details.  These  details  in  themselves  may 
be  of  a  high  order  of  imagination  in  its  proper  sense ;  but 
the  fancy  flits  from  one  to  another  and  fails  to  fuse  them 
into  a  homogeneous  unit.  We  have  as  a  resultant  a  series 
of  poetical  passages,  rather  than  a  great  poem.  The  reader 
is  not  left  at  the  end  with  one  unified,  imaginative  impres- 
sion. 

The  best  examples  of  the  creative  imagination  are  the  *'  Iliad, "  the 
"  (Edipus  Tyrannus,  "  the  "  Inferno,  "  "  King  Lear, "  and  in  a  lesser 
degree  "  Paradise  Lost.  "  The  greatness  of  these  poems  does  not 
reside  in  brilliant  passages  scattered  through  them,  but  in  the  whole 
conception  adequately  expressed.  Sophocles  was  able,  by  virtue  of 
his  imaginative  grasp,  to  realize  and  body  forth  with  intense  fidelity 
the  image  of  a  great  and  good  man  pursued  to  ruin  by  destiny, 
and  thus  to  create  a  new  personality  for  our  imaginative  experi- 
ence. The  "  Idylls  of  the  King,  "  on  the  other  hand,  represent  what 
we  may  call  a  fanciful  creation.  The  characters  are  not  adequately 
realized,  but  are  a  more  or  less  incongruous  combination  of  the 
medieval  knight  and  the  modern  gentleman,  and  the  value  of  the 
poems  consists  in  the  details  elaborately  executed  and  not  in  the 
powerful  representatioji  of  the  whole  conception. 

In  a  narrower  scope  compare  the  vivid  imaginative  unity  of  '*  The 
Ancient  Mariner,"  with  the  feeble  agglutination  of  incidents  and 
reflection  in  some  of  Wordsworth's  narrative  pieces,  as  '•  Ruth." 

III.     The  Imaginative  Treatment  of  Poetic  Subjects 

The  preceding  section  regarded  the  imaginative  faculty 
in  poetry  under  its  general  aspects;  we  shall  now  turn  to  its 
particular  manifestations  in  various  kinds  of  poetry.     This 


38  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

will  serve  to  present  the  same  operations  from  a  different 
point  of  view. 

1.  The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  the  Treatment  of  Narrative 
and  Description.  —  (a)  Vivid  Imagery. — In  studying  the  im- 
aginative value  of  a  poem  containing  description  or  narration, 
the  first  thing  to  consider  is  the  vividness  of  the  imagery. 
This  is  the  lowest  form  in  which  the  imagination  appears. 
Details  that  are  not  vivid  do  not  fall  within  the  range  of 
poetry  at  all.  The  poet,  indeed,  must  be  also  true  to  nature, 
but  fidelity  to  nature  is  not  of  itself  poetical.  Vividness 
must  be  added  to  truth,  and  vividness  implies  a  degree  of 
intensity  ;  that  is,  an  intense  realization  of  the  object  described 
and  an  intense  presentation  of  it  which  forces  it  upon  the 
imagination  of  the  reader. 

Thus  if  I  write  ''the  lily  is  a  large  white  flower"  I  am  not  poet- 
ically imaginative,  though  I  am  true  to  nature.  When  the  poet 
writes : 

Large,  white  lilies  of  love,  sceptral  and  tall, 
lovely  for  eyes  to  see  — 

—  Swinburne,  "  Choriambics." 

he  is  imaginative,  because  vivid.     Other  examples  of  vividness  are  : 

The  many-knotted  waterflags 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine 
With  sweet  musk-roses  and  with  eglantine. 

—  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  Act  II,  Sc.  1, 11.  249  ff. 

When  the  image  has  no  other  poetic  value  beyond  this  first 
quality  of  vividness,  it  is  an  example  of  what  we  have  called 
fancy.  Thomson's  "  Seasons  "  is  defective  in  poetic  power,  because 
it  is  largely  confined  to  imagery,  without  going  further. 

(6)  Emotional  Effect.  —  Description  and  narration  pass  into 
a  higher  imaginative  sphere  when  the  images  or  details  em- 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  39 

ployed  are  not  only  vivid,  but  are  endowed  with  emotional 
significance,  and  so  make  appeal  not  only  to  the  visualiz- 
ing power  of  the  reader  but  to  his  heart  and  soul  and  spirit- 
ual nature. 

The  following  lines  represent  a  much  higher  eifort  of  imagina- 
tion than  the  descriptive  lines  cited  above.  The  poet  has  found 
means,  in  some  way  hard  to  analyze,  to  touch  our  soul  and  to  put 
it  into  sympathetic  accord  with  nature. 

O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength. 

—  "  Winter's  Tale,"  Act  IV,  Sc.  4, 11.  116  ff. 

Such  idealization  is  far  removed  from  the  language  of  prose 
and  is  one  of  the  distinctive  marks  of  poetry.  There  is  no 
fixed  rule  by  which  poets  achieve  this  effect ;  often  it  is  by  the 
power  of  association  in  one  or  other  form ;  that  is,  by  bring- 
ing an  object  into  touch  with  some  elevating  conception  that 
lifts  it  out  of  the  commonplace.^ 

Thus  Homer  idealizes  by  direct  comparison  in  "  Iliad,"  Book  VI, 
where  we  read  :  — 

"  And  with  her  went  the  handmaid  bearing  in  her  bosom  the 
tender  boy,  the  little  child.  Hector's  loved  son,  like  unto  a  beautiful 
star.''  The  comparison  has  nothing  to  do  with  externals,  but 
suggests  a  wealth  of  emotional  features,  the  radiance,  softness, 
purity,  simplicity,  which  the  image  of  the  star  sheds  on  the  child. 
In  "  The  Solitary  Reaper  "  Wordsworth  surrounds  the  figure  of  the 
woman  singing  in  the  field  with  the  light  of  other  conceptions. 

1  For  a  fuller  discussion  of  the  process  of  idealization  and  its  relation 
to  realism,  see  following  chapter. 


40  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

The  song  of  the  reaper  is  unified  in  the  imagination  with  the 
song  of  nature,  with  distant  lands,  with  the  romantic  past  and 
all  this  with  some  quiet,  simple  heart-sorrow. 

(c)  Unifying  Impression. — In  examining  the  imagery  of 
a  poem  we  must  also  consider  whether  the  poet  has  suc- 
ceeded in  fusing  the  imaginative  elements  of  his  narration 
or  description  into  a  homogeneous  whole,  which  he  accom- 
plishes by  the  creative  power  of  imagination  described 
above.  This  appreciation  cannot  be  made  readily  and  off- 
hand. By  careful  and  sympathetic  study  we  must  determine 
whether  he  has  imaged  the  several  details  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  one  dominant  emotion,  and  whether  there  is  produced 
on  the  reader  a  single  impression  ;  that  is,  an  impression  not 
of  a  series  of  related  images,  but  of  one  large,  imaginative 
conception  richly  elaborated. 

Most  of  the  shorter  poems  in  the  "Golden  Treasury  "  illustrate  this 
phase  of  the  imagination,  such  as  "The  Solitary  Reaper,"  men- 
tioned above.  To  perceive  more  distinctly  what  is  expected  we 
might  contrast  Keats's  sonnet  "  On  Looking  Into  Chapman's 
Homer  "  with  the  same  poet's  sonnet,  "  Bright  Star."  In  the  for- 
mer the  whole  conception  of  surprise  and  delight  grows  in  empha- 
sis and  power  under  the  symbol  of  the  traveler  in  mysterious  won- 
derland, culminating  in  the  picture  of  "  Cortez "  viewing  the 
Pacific.  In  the  latter  the  master  description  of  the  first  eight  lines 
is  in  a  most  unaccountable  way  repudiated  in  what  succeeds,  so 
that  the  impression  is  nullified.  Wordsworth's  "  Tintern  Abbey  " 
is  a  more  noteworthy  instance  because  the  vision  of  the  poet  is 
wider,  and  nature  and  the  soul  of  man  are  brought  together  under 
one  view ;  but  this,  the  greatest  of  Wordsworth's  poems,  requires 
diligent  study  to  realize  its  full  value.  —  Milton's  "  Lycidas  "  con- 
tains at  least  one  passage  (the  lines  containing  the  words  of  St. 
Peter)  in  which  the  poet's  imagination  swerved  into  another  field, 
and,  though  logically  connected  with  his  subject,  it  is  imaginatively 
incoherent.  The  best  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  "The 
Prioresses  Tale,"  "  The  Knightes  Tale,"  "  The  Nonnes  Preestes  Tale," 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  41 

contain  sometimes  long  digressions,  and  yet  are  compacted  of  a 
single  imaginative  view  and  leave  one  unmistakable  impression  on 
the  imagination  of  the  reader.  On  the  other  hand,  Keats's  "  En- 
dymion,"  which  professes  to  realize  the  relations  between  the  god- 
dess Diana  and  her  earthly  lover,  fails  in  this,  and  turns  out  to  be 
nothing  more  than  a  series  of  luxurious  descriptions. 

2.  The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  the  Treatment  of  External 
Nature.  —  We  shall  consider  this  treatment  as  exhibited  in 
two  different  modes. 

(a)  Nature  Colored  by  the  Mood  of  the  Poet.  —  In  this  case 
the  poet  approaches  nature  preoccupied  by  some  personal 
state  of  soul,  as  sorrow,  joy,  bereavement,  and  invests  the 
scene  with  the  color  of  his  emotions.  He  has  recourse  to 
natural  imagery  to  body  forth  his  subjective  state.  He  is 
not  concerned  to  interpret  nature,  but  to  interpret  his  own 
mood,  as  will  be  explained  more  fully  below. 

In  the  following  lines  the  imagination  of  the  poet  goes  to  nature 
for  an  embodiment  of  the  emotion  of  cheerlessness. 
How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere  I 

—  Shakespeark,  "  Sonnet  97." 

The  nature  poetry  of  Shelley  is  nearly  always  suffused  with  the 
ethereal  and  intense  quality  of  his  personal  character  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  his  descriptive  lines  seem  unreal,  beautiful  indeed  and 
surrounded  with  a  halo  of  light,  but  unconvincing  as  a  portrait  of 
nature.  His  "  Skylark  "  is  an  unearthly  spirit,  his  "  West  Wind  "  a 
ghostly  enchanter,  and  we  seem  to  be  pursuing  dreams,  not  realities, 
as  we  read. 

Note.  —  When  the  influence  of  the  poet's  feelings  leads 
him  to  give  a  distinctly  false  view  of  nature,  this  misrepre- 
sentation is  called  the  "pathetic  fallacy."  (See  Ruskin, 
"  Modern  Painters,"  Vol.  Ill,  Chap.  12.)     The  term  is  not 


42  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

necessarily  used  in  a  disparaging  sense ;  such  misrepresenta- 
tion is  legitimate,  because  natural  to  the  human  heart,  if 
the  emotion  itself  is  genuine.  But  though  true  to  the 
heart,  it  is  still  false  to  nature,  and  hence  a  "fallacy," 
and  it  is  a  "pathetic"  fallacy,  because  occasioned  by 
the  influence  of  passion. 

We  may  use  Raskin's  example  :  — 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 

KiNGSLEY,  "  The  Sands  of  Dee." 

and  Ruskin's  observation,  —  "  the  foam  is  not  cruel,  neither  does 
it  crawl.  The  state  of  mind  that  attributes  to  it  these  characters 
is  one  in  which  the  reason  is  unhinged  by  grief,"  or  at  least  the 
observation  of  nature  yields  to  the  spell  of  emotion. 

Again, 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climbest  the  skies ! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face. 

—  SiDN  E Y,  *  *  Sonnet . ' ' 

These  lines  do  not  interpret  the  appeal  of  the  moon  to  one 
thinking  normally,  but  the  disappointed  lover  sheds  his  sadness 
over  what  he  sees. 

(b)  The  Mood  of  Nature  Interpreted  by  the  Poet.  —  This  act 
of  nature  interpretation  is,  under  one  aspect,  the  reverse  of 
the  preceding.  In  the  former,  the  poet,  being  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  personal  emotion,  imbues  nature  with  his 
own  mood.  In  interpreting,  the  poet,  contemplating  a  beau- 
tiful scene,  is  kindled  into  emotion  or  emotional  thought 
by  the  influence  of  what  he  sees. 

To  understand  this  process  let  us  conceive  the  following. 
Every  aspect  of  nature  has  in  itself  a  meaning  for  us,  a 
message  for  our  hearts,  an  emotional  significance  proper  to 
itself,  and  independent  of  any  particular  mood  in  which  we 
may  approach  it.     Thus,  a  beetling  mountain-cliff  is  sublime, 


IMAGINATION  IN   POETRY  43 

though  I  be  in  no  sublime  mood  when  I  lift  my  eyes  to  it. 
The  broad  sunlit  river  is  strong  and  peaceful,  though 
the  soul  of  the  beholder  may  for  other  reasons  be  in  a 
state  of  fret  and  agitation.  The  mountain,  the  river,  are 
of  themselves  calculated  to  suggest  the  ideas  of  sublimitj/ 
or  peace. 

What  is  true  and  conspicuous  in  the  cases  just  mentioned 
is  no  less  true  of  every  phase  of  nature  that  comes  under  our 
view,  and  yet  it  is  not  given  to  all  to  see  and  appreciate  that 
meaning  in  every  case,  as  it  is  in  the  more  palpable  examples 
just  alluded  to.  To  create  this  appreciation  is  the  office  of  the 
poet.  He  grasps  the  great  idea  that  lies  fundamentally  in 
the  scene  before  him ;  and  then  in  his  verse  he  pronounces 
this  message  so  distinctly  and  truly  that  we,  the  readers, 
realize  for  ourselves,  under  his  interpretation,  the  meaning 
of  nature  that  before  was  dim  and  vague. 

The  essential  act,  then,  of  the  interpretative  imagination 
consists  in  apprehending  and  expressing  the  mood  of  nature. 
This  may  be  done  in  various  ways.  First,  it  may  be  treated 
very  simply  and  obviously,  as  when  the  poet  merely  gives 
expression  to  the  beauty  of  the  springtime  or  the  silence  of 
the  night.  Take  as  an  example  the  childlike,  yet  genuine, 
ode  to  Spring,  of  Nash  (Golden  Treasury,  No.  I).  The  in- 
terpretation of  nature  is  not  profound,  but  it  is  nature  and 
not  the  poet  that  is  revealed  to  us.  Many  such  simple  in- 
terpretations of  nature  are  to  be  found  in  Chaucer  and 
in  English  Literature  passim. 

But  secondly,  Nature's  meaning  may  be  interpreted  more 
intimately  than  this.  The  poet  may  bring  home  to  us  a 
highly  complex  and  intricate  impression  made  by  some 
particular  scene  acting  on  a  highly  sensitive  soul. 

We  may  instance  the  well-known  night-scene  in  "  The  Merchant 
of  Venice," 


44  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank. 
Here  will  we  sit  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold. 

-  Act  V,  So.  1, 11.  54  ff. 

In  quite  another  style,  but  with  the  same  imaginative  power, 
Keats  interprets  the  summer  midnight  among  the  woods :  — 

Upon  a  tranced  summer  night 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
AVhich  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave. 

—  "  Hyperion,"  Book  1, 11.  72  ff. 

,  Thirdly,  with  still  deeper  insight,  the  poet  may  give  us 
the  moral  meaning  of  nature,  the  message  that  in  some 
sense  bears  on  the  conduct  of  our  lives.  This,  of  course, 
does  not  mean  using  a  landscape  as  an  excuse  for  drawing 
a  lesson  upon  life,  as,  for  example,  in  Young's  "Night 
Thoughts,"  and  in  many  another  lesser  poet's  lines,  but 
rather  in  seeing  "the  spiritual  truths  mirrored  in  the  face 
of  Nature,  in  discovering  the  message  for  a  higher  life  that 
Nature  itself  means  to  convey.'^  ^ 

The  poetry  of  Wordsworth  is  pervaded  with  this  spiritual  in- 
terpretation of  nature.  Almost  any  of  his  nature  poems  will  serve 
to  illustrate  it.  Even  the  narrative  poems,  such  as  "  Lucy  Gray," 
"  Ruth,"  or  '"  Matthew  "  are  intended  to  represent  the  moral  effect 
of  nature  acting  on  the  soul,  rather  than  mere  pathos  or  sympathy. 

As  another  example  see  Matthew  Arnold's  poem  entitled  "  Self- 
Dependence"  and  these  concluding  lines  from  Aubrey  de  Vere's 

1  For  a  complete  study  of  this  subject,  see  Shairp,  *'  The  Poetic  Interpre- 
tation of  Nature/' 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  45 

magnificent  "  Autumnal  Ode  "  in  which  with  unflagging  inspiration 
he  ascends  from  the  glories  of  the  seasons  in  their  changes  to  the 
immutable  glories  of  the  Realm  of  Rest. 

Hark  !  the  breeze  increases  : 
The  sunset  forests,  catching  sudden  fire, 
Flash,  swell,  and  sing,  a  million-organed  choir  : 
Roofing  the  West,  rich  clouds  in  glittering  fleeces 

O'erarch  ethereal  spaces  and  divine 

Of  heaven's  clear  hyaline. 
No  dream  is  this.     Beyond  that  radiance  golden 

God's  sons  I  see.  His  armies  bright  and  strong, 
The  ensanguined  Martyrs  here  with  palms  high  holden, 

The  Virgins  there,  a  lily-lifting  throng. 


Man  was  not  made  for  things  that  leave  us, 

For  that  which  goeth  and  return eth. 
For  hopes  that  lift  us  yet  deceive  us, 

For  love  that  wears  a  smile  yet  mourneth  ; 
Not  for  fresh  forests  from  the  dead  leaves  springing, 

The  cyclic  re-creation  which  at  best 
Yields  us,  —  betrayal  still  to  promise  clinging,  — 

But  tremulous  shadows  of  the  Realm  of  Rest : 

For  things  immortal  Man  was  made, 
God's  image  latest  from  his  hand, 

Co-heir  with  Him  who  in  Man's  flesh  arrayed. 
Holds  o'er  the  worlds  the  Heavenly-Human  wand : 

His  portion  this,  —  sublime 
To  stand  where  access  none  hath  Space  or  Time, 
Above  the  starry  hosts,  the  cherub  band. 
To  stand  —  to  advance  — r  and,  after  all,  to  stand ! 

3.  The  Imaginative  Faculty  in  the  Treatment  of  Human 
Character.  —  (a)  Description  of  Character.  —  This  is  parallel 
to  the  interpretation  of  nature  described  above.  The  vivid 
conception  of  an  imagined  individual  enables  the  poet  to 
draw  a  portrait  true  to  life,  and  by  emphasizing  salient  traits 


46  THE  NATURE  OF  POETBY 

to  interpret  the  character  as  the  nature  poet  interprets 
nature.  Effective  character  description  consists  not  of  ab- 
stract elements,  nor  yet  of  mere  externals,  but  rather  of  such 
outward  features  as  vividly  suggest  the  soul  within. 

The  following  characterization  is  too  abstract  to  make  a  real 
impression :  — 

Then  Aristides  lifts  his  honest  front; 

Spotless  of  heart,  to  whom  the  unflattering  voice 

Of  freedoin  gave  the  noblest  name  of  Just. 

—  Thomson,  "Winter." 

Compare  the  descriptions  of  character  in  the  "  Deserted  Village  " 
such  as  these  significant  lines  applied  to  the  schoolmaster :  — 

In  arguing  too  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still, 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound     . 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around. 

—  and  better  still,  because  more  concentrated,  the  portrait  of 
Odysseus  in  the  third  book  of  the  "  Iliad." 

"  But  whenever  Odysseus  full  of  wiles  rose  up,  he  stood  and 
looked  down,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  waved  not  his 
staff  whether  backwards  or  forwards,  but  held  it  stiff,  like  to  a 
man  of  no  understanding;  one  would  deem  him  to  be  churlish 
and  naught  but  a  fool.  .But  when  he  uttered  his  great  voice 
from  his  chest  and  words  like  unto  the  snowflakes  of  winter, 
then  could  no  mortal  man  contend  with  Odysseus ;  then  marveled 
we  not  thus  to  behold  Odysseus'  aspect." 

The  best  examples  in  English  are  to  be  found  in  the  Prologue 
to  the  "  Canterbury  Tales." 

(b)  The  Dramatic  Representation  of  Character.  —  This  is  the 
process  of  creating  a  character,  not  by  describing  its  traits, 
but  by  exhibiting  it  as  it  reveals  itself  in  speech  and  action, 
as  in  the  drama*  It  is  the  highest  of  all  the  powers  of  the 
imagination,  and  belongs  in  its  perfection  to  the  greatest  of 
the   world's    poets,   as    Shakespeare,    H*omer,    Sophocles. 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETBT  47 

Wonderful  as  is  this  magical  power  to  set  before  us  a  vivid 
character  in  a  few  words  of  dialogue,  yet  it  is  reducible  to 
an  act  of  the  imagination  in  union  with  other  mental  powers. 
We  may  analyze  it  as  follows  :  — 

The  poet,  gifted  himself  with  a  many-sided  personality, 
experiences  within  his  own  soul,  in  the  storm  and  stress  of 
his  life,  a  wide  range  of  emotional  moods.  Besides  this, 
being  endowed  with  powers  of  keen  observation  and 
insight,  he  notes  vividly  .and  intelligently  the  varying 
personalities  in  actual  life  with  whom  he  comes  in  contact. 
Both  of  these  experiences,  those  within  his  own  soul  and 
those  observed  in  others,  are  stored  up  in  his  memory  and 
imagination  in  such  vivid  impressions  that  he  is  able  to  sum- 
mon them  up  at  will,  to  combine  them  in  a  variety  of  ways, 
to  enlarge  or  diminish  thig  characteristic  or  that,  —  and  to  do 
all  this,  not  by  a  process  of  deliberate  and  conscious  piecing 
together,  but  at  a  glance  and  intuitively.  Thus  from 
his  storehouse  he  projects  before  his  own  mind  a  new 
character,  entirely  harmonious  in  itself  and  entirely  true  to 
nature. 

He  beholds  this  creation  of  his  mind  so  vividly  that  he  is 
able  not  merely  to  describe  it,  but  to  register  its  thoughts, 
its  words,  its  turns  of  expression. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Besides  this  power  of  vividly  realizing, 
the  dramatic  poet  has  such  sureness  of  touch  and  such  com- 
mand of  expression,  that  he  can  suggest  to  the  reader  the 
character  he  conceives  in  a  few  master  strokes.  The  thought 
that  is  uttered,  the  words  and  expressions,  the  very  style  it- 
self of  the  language,  is  a  revelation  of  character.  In  actual 
life  we  may  have  a  very  indistinct  impression  of  a  person  after 
an  hour's  conversation ;  the  dramatic  poet  often  gives  us  a 
distinct  impression  after  half-a-dozen  lines.  And  these  per- 
sons are  so  real,  so  complex,  such  true  representations  of 
life,  that  we  may  discuss  the  traits  of  an  individual  like 


48  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

Hamlet  or  Macbeth  with  as  much  interest  and  with  as  little 
possibility  of  reaching  a  categorical  decision,  as  we  discuss 
the  character  of  living  beings.  Possibly  Shakespeare  himself 
could  not  tell  us  decisively  whether  Hamlet  were  mad ;  for 
Shakespeare  did  not  manufacture  Hamlet ;  he  realized  what 
he  would  do  and  feel  and  say  under  given  circumstances,  and 
Shakespeare,  beholding  him,  might  well  ask  himself  whether 
this  man  were  really  sane.  By  such  intuition  we  are  given  the 
characters  of  Lear,  Falstaff,  Hotspur,  and  all  the  other  great 
creations  of  the  dramatists.  It  is  found  also  in  the  epic 
poets,  as  Homer,  and  even  in  the  dramatic  monologues  of 
Browning  and  others.^ 

We  have  seen  above  that  the  poet  may  interpret  nature 
either  in  its  general  and  superficial  moods,  or  in  some  more  in- 
tricate and  specialized  phase  of  her  appeal  to  man.  The 
same  happens  in  the  case  of  the  dramatic  poet.  He  may  rep- 
resent a  general  character,  such  as  the  conventional  Farmer 
or  Trader  or  Parson,  and  confine  his  delineation  to  the  typi- 
cal traits.  This  is  the  lowest  form  of  dramatic  imagination. 
Or  again  he  may  represent  not  a  type,  but  a  highly  individ- 
ualized being,  one  that  possesses  all  the  delicate  lights  and 
shadows  and  intricacies  of  character  that  we  observe  in  in- 
dividual men  and  women. 

As  an  instance  of  the  first  we  may  refer  to  the  Morality  Play 
"Every  Man."  "Every  Man"  is  the  typical  human  being.  The 
writer  attempts  merely  to  represent  dramatically  what  he  conceives 
to  be  the  experience  of  the  human  race  in  general,  when,  in  the 
full  possession  of  his  power,  a  man  is  brought  face  to  face  with 
approaching  death.  Again  in  the  Interlude  called  "  The  Foure 
P's  "  we  have  the  typical  "  Palmer,"  "  Potecary,"  "  Pardoner,"  and 
"  Pedlar,"  not  individuals  but  types  of  men ;  it  is  not  Farmer 
John,  but  the  Farmer  in  general,  that  is  represented. 

For  illustration  of  the  gift  of  the  Dramatic  Imagination  in  its 

1  On  the  dramatic  imagination  ,  of.  C.F.  Johnson,  "Elements  of  Literary 
Criticism,"  Chap.  III. 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  49 

fulness,  the  reader  must  have  recourse  to  longer  examples  than  can 
be  quoted  here.  The  best  of  Shakespeare's  plays  furnish  the  type. 
It  will  help  to  make  the  appreciation  more  distinct  in  the  mind  if 
one  of  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  for  instance,  "  Richard  III,"  ba 
compared  with  Bulwer  Lytton's  "  Richelieu."  In  the  latter  drama 
the  character  portrayal  is  executed  with  an  unskilful  hand. 
For  instance,  the  Cardinal  moralizes, bu-t  not  always  at  the  right  mo- 
ment. He  has  periods  of  weakness  (as  in  the  soliloquy.  Act  III), 
but  it  is  not  exactly  the  weakness  of  a  strong  man.  He  is  familiar, 
(as  with  Joseph),  but  not  always  in  that  precise  tone  which  a  great 
man  uses,  and  more  than  once  we  suspect  him  of  ranting.  These 
are  defects  which  obscure  the  impression  of  the  character,  and  which 
it  would  be  impossible  for  the  poet  to  commit,  if  his  vision  were 
not  dim  or  unsteady. 

A  more  obvious  illustration  will  be  found  by  comparing  the  scene 
between  Arthur  and  Hubert  in  Shakespeare's  "  King  John  "  with  the 
same  scene  in  "  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of  John,  King  of  England." 
The  scene  from  the  older  drama  is  given  in  full  at  the  end  of  this 
volume.  The  Arthur  of  the  "  Troublesome  Raigne  "  is  presumably 
a  more  mature  lad  than  Shakespeare's  Arthur,  but,  old  or  young,  he 
is  without  significance.  In  all  the  long  scene,  there  is  not  only  lack 
of  pathos,  not  only  great  diffuseness,  but  there  is  nothing  natural. 
The  elaborate  argumentation  on  the  justifiability  of  Hubert's  pro- 
posed action  is  out  of  place.  The  boy-prince  speaks  in  precisely  the 
same  tone  as  the  gaoler.  Both  are  manikins  that  leave  no  impression 
of  character  whatever.  Shakespeare  in  half  as  many  lines  accom- 
plishes everything.  He  has  not  only  pathos,  but  the  two  characters 
are  drawn  with  such  precision,  clearness,  and  firmness  of  touch  that 
hardly  a  word  is  ineffectual.  Even  the  euphuism  of  Arthur  is  such 
as  a  boy  might  use,  once  granting  the  instinct  and  habit  of  it,  an  in- 
stinct and  habit  which  Shakespeare  was  deliberately,  and  for  stage 
purposes,  transplanting  from  the  court  of  Elizabeth  to  the  court  of 
King  John. 

Such  are  the  various  forms  of  imagination  as  manifested 
in  poetry.  In  regard  to  all  of  them  it  must  be  borne  in  mind, 
as  we  have  tried,  to  show,  that  the  imagination  is  essentially 


50  THE  NATUBE  OF  POETRY 

a  faculty  of  seeing,  not  of  reasoning.  It  does  not  reach  its 
results  by  conscious  processes  of  analysis  or  synthesis,  but 
by  intuition,  by  realizing.  The  poet  does  not  think  out  a  re- 
semblance between  the  skylark  and  a  "  firefly  in  a  dell  of 
dew,"  but  he  sees  it.  He  does  not  piece  together  a  scene  of 
nature ;  he  beholds  it  as  it  passes  before  his  mind's  eye. 
Hence  the  poet  is  called  a  seer,  one  who  sees ;  and  he  is 
said  to  have  visions,  to  be  inspired,  to  be  possessed  of 
"  a  fine  frenzy." 

Note.  —  The  images  in  a  poem  are  contained  in  all  nouns, 
adjectives,  verbs,  and  so  forth,  that  convey  a  sensible  detail 
to  the  mind,  as  "  Bare,  ruined,  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang."  The  imaginative  elements  are  made  up  of  groups 
of  images  that  are  closely  related.  Thus  the  sonnet  from 
which  the  preceding  line  is  quoted.  Golden  Treasury, 
XXXVIII,  may  be  said  to  contain  three  imaginative  elements 
corresponding  to  each  of  the  three  quatrains. 

Far  more  important  than  the  images  actually  represented 
by  the  words  of  the  poem  are  the  images  not  expressed  but 
suggested.  The  poet  can  never  be  content  with  what  he  lit- 
erally expresses,  but  selects  some  vital  image  for  expression 
which  arouses  a  host  of  secondary  images  in  the  mind,  and 
these  often  give  their  chief  value  to  the  poem.  In  the  "  Ode 
to  the  Nightingale "  we  are  told  that  this  same  songofttimes 
hath 

Charm'd  magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn  — 

lines  which  open  up  a  vista  into  the  dim  land  of  ro- 
mance and  chivalry,  haunted  castles,  high  adventures,  dolo- 
rous deeds,  and  all  the  dreams  of  medieval  knighthood. 
Therefore  the  imagination  of  the  reader  of  poetry  must  be 
quick  to  respond  to  the  poet's  suggestion  and  can  never  be 
passive,  inert,  or  merely  analytic. 


IMAGINATION  IN  POETRY  61 

EXERCISES 

1.  Compare  the  similes  in  Shelley's  "  Skylark  "  and  in  Lodge's 
"  Rosaline  "  (Golden  Treasury,  XIX) ;  explain  the  difference  be- 
tween them  and  show  which  represents  the  higher  exercise  of  the 
imaginative  faculty  (fancy  or  imagination). 

2.  Find  an  example  of  the  "  pathetic  fallacy  "  in  Milton's  "  Lyci- 
das,"  and  explain. 

3.  Discriminate  between  fancy  and  imagination   in   Milton's 

"  L'Allegro.  " 

4.  Should  we  call  the  imaginative  details  in  "  Lycidas  "  predomi- 
nantly fanciful,  or  imaginative  in  the  proper  sense  ? 

5.  What  are  the  large  imaginative  elements  in  Wordsworth's 
"  Cuckoo  "  V  Show  how  they  are  fused  into  one  whole  conception  or 
impression. 

6.  In  the  descriptive  parts  of  Tennyson's  "  Morte  d'Arthur," 
select  two  or  three  places  where  the  imagery  is  mere  setting,  but 
without  distinct  emotional  significance ;  other  places  where  the 
imagery  contributes  to  the  emotional  character  of  the  poem. 

7.  What  single  distinct  impression  is  conveyed  by  CoUins's 
"  Ode  to  Evening  "  ?  Show  how  the  various  imaginative  elements 
are  united  to  produce  the  impression. 

8.  Does  the  poet  interpret  nature  or  express  his  own  mood  in 
the  following  ? 

Keats's  "  Ode  to  Autumn." 
Gray's  "  Elegy." 
Campbell's  "  Evening  Star.'* 
Shelley's  «  To  the  Moon." 


CHAPTEE   IV 
Thought  in  Poetry 

1.  Thought  and  Truth.  —  By  the  thought-element  in 
poetry  we  understand  the  reflections,  the  views,  the  prin- 
ciples, the  ideals  that  the  writer  expresses  —  also  the  inci- 
dents, facts,  objects,  described,  when  we  regard  these  not  as 
images  of  the  imagination,  but  as  inventions  or  records  of  the 
mind,  subject  to  the  laws  of  truth,  probability j  and  the  like. 
This  element  is  of  fundamental  importance  in  the  consider- 
ation of  every  work  of  art ;  for  thought  of  some  kind  serves 
as  the  basis  of  all  intelligent  emotion,  of  all  emotion  that 
is  not  mere  instinct  or  sensation.  It  is  not  enough  either 
for  the  poet  or  for  the  reader  of  poetry  to  feel  joy  he  knows 
not  why,  or  to  be  filled  with  admiration  for  he  knows  not 
what.  We  rejoice  intelligently  when  we  have  an  intelligible 
motive  for  our  joy. 

This  does  not  mean  that  I  must  be  able  to  analyze  what 
I  feel,  or  explain  it  by  an  act  of  reflex  consciousness,  but  it 
does  mean  that  what  I  feel  must  be  more  than  a  meaningless 
and  motiveless  exhilaration  or  depression  of  spirits.  The 
imagination,  it  is  true,  plays  an  important  part  in  stimu- 
lating feeling,  but  deeper  down  than  the  imagination  lies 
the  act  of  intelligence.  The  cry  of  "  Fire  "  starts  a  panic, 
but  it  is  not  merely  the  image  of  the  horrors  suggested  by 
the  word,  but  the  thought  that  fire  is  present  and  a  menace 
to  me  now.  Consequently  to  read  poetry  is  an  act  not  only 
of  the  emotions,  not  only  of  the  imagination,  but  fundamen- 
tally, just  as  in  reading  prose,  an  act  of  the  understanding. 

52 


THOUGHT  IN   POETRY  53 

Therefore  it  is  of  supreme  importance  to  understand  the 
poet's  view  of  life,  what  ideals  he  unfolds,  what  standard  he 
raises,  in  a  word,  what  idea  he  wishes  to  convey ;  for  such 
things  are  the  foundation  on  which  the  whole  edifice  of  true 
poetry  depends,  and  by  them  we  understand  whether  his 
emotion  is  just,  right  and  worthy,  or  the  contrary. 

Oui"  first  principle,  therefore,  is  that  the  emotion  proper 
to  poetry  is  not  mere  sensation,  but  rational  emotion  founded 
on  a  rational  motive. 

We  must  now  inquire  how  this  thought  element  manifests 
itself  in  various  classes  of  poems.  In  the  first  place  we 
often  find  incidental  reflections  of  various  kinds  scattered 
through  longer  poems,  which  give  in  passing  some  notion  of 
the  poet's  view  of  life.  We  can  scarcely  read  a  play  of 
Shakespeare  without-  lighting  upon  many  such  observa- 
tions as 

To  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

—  **  Hamlet,"  Act  I,  Sc.  3, 11.  78  ff. 
or 

The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 

—  "Julius  Caesar,"  Act  I,  Sc.  2,  11.  140  f. 

But  such  utterances,  for  the  reason  that  they  are  casual  and 
incidental,  do  not  affect  the  poem  as  a  whole,  and  do  not 
show  its  general  motive  thought,  of  which  we  are  now 
speaking. 

This  central  thought  underlying  the  whole  is  itself  some- 
times openly  expressed,  often  at  the  beginning  or  at  the 
end,  and  sometimes  in  emphatic  places  in  the  course  of  the 
poem.  A  very  plain  example  is  Tennyson's  "  Captain, " 
where  the  narrative  is  preluded  by  an  open  statement  of  the 
reflection  which  the  story  embodies. 


64  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

He  who  only  rules  by  terror 

Doth  a  grievous  wrong ; 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error ; 
Let  him  hear  my  song. 

Then  the  incident  is  narrated,  not  precisely  by  way  of 
example  or  illustration  of  this  principle,  as  in  a  didactic 
treatise,  but  as  a  concrete  expression  of  it.  This  same 
explicit  mention  of  the  motive  thought  may  be  found 
in  "  The  Ode  on  Immortality,''  in  the  "  Lines  Written 
in  Early  Spring,"  and  in  very  many  poems  both  lyric  and 
narrative. 

It  repeatedly  happens,  however,  that  the  poet  tells  his 
story  or  describes  his  incident,  guided  constantly  by  some 
dominant  idea,  but  not  confiding  it  to  the  reader  in  express 
terms.  He  is  content  to  suggest  it.  He  feels,  as  he  has 
a  right  to  do,  that  if  he  has  adequately  presented  his 
subject  from  his  own  point  of  view,  its  significance  for  the 
mind  of  the  reader  will  be  apparent.  A  hasty  reading, 
therefore,  of  a  poem  will  not  always  put  us  in  possession 
of  the  writer's  underlying  conception,  but  a  sympathetic 
apprehension  of  all  he  says  should  do  it ;  and  when  it  does, 
it  is  generally  more  effective  that  we  should  realize  the 
principle  in  the  concrete  than  have  it  thrust  upon  us 
formally  by  the  poet's  deliberate  statement  of  it. 

For  instance,  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth  is  an  exposition  of  a 
very  definite  theme  *'  the  consequence  of  grasping  at  power 
by  the  aid  of  crime."  It  must,  of  course,  never  be  fancied 
that  Shakespeare  first  said  to  himself  "ambition  is  an  evil," 
and  then  cast  about  for  a  story  to  illustrate  his  moral,  after 
the  manner  of  the  catechist.  Eather,  contemplating  the 
evil  powers  that  surge  in  man's  breast,  he  becomes  fasci- 
nated by  the  story  of  Macbeth's  ruin  and  is  impelled  "to 
show  how  the  man  into  whose  veins  evil  has  injected  some 
drop  of  its  poison,  becomes  foredoomed  to  self-destruction 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  55 

or  annihilation."  And  with  his  eye  upon  this  controll- 
ing idea  in  every  stage  of  his  drama  he  tends  to  set 
it  forth. 

As  another  instance,  in  shorter  compass,  we  may  refer  to  Words- 
worth's well-known  poem  "We  are  Seven."  If  we  study  this 
poem  from  Wordsworth's  point  of  view,  we  find  that  it  contains 
not  merely  a  pathetic  incident,  but  a  message  of  deeper  import, 
familiar  to  readers  of  the  poet, —  that  "Heaven  lies  about  us 
in  our  infancy." 

Note.  —  Impressionist  Poems.  —  This  is  the  name  given 
to  a  class  of  poems  which  made  their  appearance  in  English 
literature  with  the  romantic  revival  and  whose  vogue  has 
increased  to  the  present  day.  Their  whole  purpose  is 
nothing  more  than  to  record  an  emotional  impression, 
and  for  this  they  rely,  not  upon  any  intellectual  motive, 
but  chiefly  upon  imagination  and  the  music  effects  of 
verse  and  diction.  The  best-known  example  is  Coleridge's 
"  Ancient  Mariner."  Others  are  the  fragment,  "  Kubla 
•Khan,"  Keats's  "La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,"  Tennyson's 
"Fatima."  Although  it  is  almost  impossible  for  poetry 
entirely  to  sever  itself  from  thought,  in  all  of  these 
poems  the  thought  is  shadowy  and  ineffective,  and  the 
emotion  is  founded  on  no  solid  intelligent  basis.  For 
this  reason  such  poetry,  however  alluring,  is  not  vital.  It 
has  no  counterpart  in  the  great  poetry  that  has  survived 
the  ages.  Its  decadent  quality  is  best  illustrated  in  the 
principles  of  the  modern  school  of  "  Impressionists "  or 
"  Symbolists "  who  openly  avow  that  thought  is  the  bane 
of  poetry  and  that  to  excite  the  thrill  of  sensation  is  its 
supreme  object.  And  in  the  latest  French  representatives 
of  the  school  "  we  arrive  at  something  approaching  a  sheer 
intellectual  vacuum,  the  mere  buzzing  of  the  romantic 
chimera  in  the   void.      Such   is   the  result   of  divorcing 


^Q  THE  NATURE  OF  POETBT 

literature   from  rational   purpose  and   reducing   it   to   the 
quest  of  sensation."  ^ 

2.  Thought  Emotional.  —  Not  every  thought  or  truth  is 
suitable  for  poetry.  Many  ideas  do  not  touch  the  emotional 
regions  of  th6  soul  at  all,  perhaps  of  their  very  nature 
could  not  do  so.  Instances  will  occur  to  every  "one,  such 
as  mathematical  truths,  or  those  of  a  purely  practical  and 
commonplace  character,  or  such  as  merely  stimulate  or 
satisfy  curiosity,  which,  as  has  been  pointed  out,  is  not 
a  sufficient  motive  for  poetry.  Further,  not  only  must 
the  thought  of  the  poem  be  of  itself  emotional,  but  it  must 
be  conceived  in  an  emotional  attitude,  not  coldly  or  ab- 
stractly, but  fervidly,  passionately.  However  noble  the 
idea  may  be,  we  can  never  tolerate  in  poetry  noble  abstrac- 
tions, cold  moralizings.  Every  thought  must  be  a  burning 
thought;  every  thought  must  issue  from  heart  and  head 
at  once.  One  may  think  so  closely  that  the  springs  of 
feeling  stop ;  or  one  may  feel  so  passionately,  that  thought 
is  dimmed  and  extinguished ;  and  either  condition  is  fatal 
to  poetry.  The  thought  must  be  an  inspiration,  a  vision, 
not  a  syllogism,  not  a  definition,  not  a  precept. 

3.  Proportion  between  Emotion  aad  Thought.  —  Thought 
must  not  only  be  instinct  with  emotion,  but,  as  it  is  the 
rational  motive  of  the  emotion,  it  must  be  proportionate  to 
it  as  the  cause  to  the  effect.  Now  this  proportion  between 
the  thought  and  the  feeling  may  fall  short  in  two  ways ; 
first,  if  the  thought  is  inadequate  to  justify  the  particular 
emotion,  and,  secondly,  if  the  emotion  is  too  feeble  to  do 
justice  to  the  thought.  Let  us  examine  each  of  these 
failings. 

(a)  In  the  first  place,  then,  the  thought  must  be  momentous 
enough  to  sustain  the  quality  and  degree  of  emotion  that 

i"The  New  Laokoon  "  by  Irving  Babbitt,  p.  146.  For  an  excellent 
discussion  of  the  whole  subject,  see  the  same  work. 


THOUGHT  IN   POETRY  57 

the  poem  carries.  Rnskin  has  well  pointed  out  that,  though 
admiration  is  in  itself  a  noble,  and  therefore  a  poetical, 
emotion,  admiration  at  a  display  of  fireworks  is  not  poetical 
because  such  an  exhibition  does  not  really  justify  admira- 
tion. A  great  emotion  must  be  founded  on  a  great  motive, 
that  is,  on  a  great  conception.  If  not,  if  the  poem  has 
abundance  of  feeling  but  scanty  motive,  it  lapses  into 
one  of  two  defects,  either  sentimentalism  or  extravagance. 

This  is  perhaps  the  chief  reason  why  Tennyson's  "  May  Queen  " 
is  objectionable.  There  is  surely  no  lack  of  feeling  expressed,  but 
it  is  weak  feeling.  There  is  nothing  to  support  it.  Such  sen- 
timentalism we  may  expect  from  a  sickly  child,  but  it  is  not 
poetical. 

Shelley  illustrates,  though  in  another  fashion,  the  same  failure 
to  build  emotion  on  thought.  Passion  sometimes  overbalances 
mind.  There  is  not  that  adjustment  between  the  two  which  we 
find,  saj',  in  Shakespeare  or  Milton.  We  are  swept  away  by  the 
intensity  of  the  emotion  and  the  gorgeous  sweep  of  imagery  in  the 
"  West  Wind,"  but  we  come  to  feel  that  "  there  is  some  hidden 
want,"  something  needed  more  clear,  more  explicit,  before  the 
poem  ends,  to  assure  us  that  there  was  a  tempest  in  the  soul  to 
match  the  tempest  without.  Compare  this  poem  with  the  tempest 
scene  in  "  Lear " ;  and,  though  the  comparison  may  not  be  quite 
fair  to  the  lyric  poet,  it  will  serve  to  emphasize  what  we  miss  in  the 
"  Ode  to  the  West  Wind." 

(h)  On  the  other  hand,  the  disproportion  between  thought 
and  feeling  may  lie  in  the  opposite  direction,  —  the  emotion 
may  not  do  justice  to  the  idea.  An  inspiring  concept  may 
be  treated  half-heartedly ;  the  poet  is  not  in  full  sympathy 
with  his  subject.  The  result  in  this  case  is  not  sentimen- 
talism, but  insincerity.  In  prose  we  expect  the  writer  to  be- 
lieve what  he  says,  in  poetry  we  expect  the  writer  also  to 
feel  what  he  says  ;  and  if  he  leaves  the  contrary  impression, 
we  find  his  appeal  unconvincing. 

Poetic  insincerity,  then,  occurs  when  the  writer  does  not 


68  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

give  full  expression  to  the  emotion  postulated  by  his  theme. 
This  defective  expression  of  emotion  shows  itself  in  various 
ways :  sometimes  in  the  verse  melody,  as  in  Wordsworth's 
"Poor  Susan,"  where  the  subject  calls  for  simple  pathos 
and  the  metre  suggests  a  sort  of  reckless  gayety ;  some- 
times it  results  from  the  fact  that  the  writer  is  too  intent 
upon  word-painting  to  give  his  emotion  full  play,  as  in 
Tennyson's  "  Lady  of  Shalott "  ;  sometimes  his  imagination 
is  simply  inert  and  leaves  him  with  cold  abstractions  in- 
stead of  glowing  realities,  as,  for  instance,  in  Akenside's 
"  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination." 

In  illustration  of  this  quality  of  sincerity  or  seriousness, 
the  reader  should  turn  to  the  examples  and  commentary  of 
Matthew  Arnold  in  his  "  Essay  on  Poetry."  Further  in- 
stances may  be  found  in  a  later  chapter  of  the  present  book. 
(See  Lyric  Poetry.) 

4.  Originality  of  Thought.  —  We  come  now  to  the  question 
whether  the  poet's  thought  must  be  new.  —  Certainly  not 
new  in  the  sense  of  curious  or  fantastic.  Such  thinking 
implies  ingenuity  and  originality,  not  genuine  feeling. 
Novel  speculations  cannot  properly  engage  the  emotions  of 
the  writer  because  his  mind  is  presumably  absorbed  in 
elaborating  and  explaining  them.  Nor  yet  can  they  reach 
the  emotions  of  the  reader,  who,  preoccupied  with  the 
novelty  of  what  he  reads,  is  amused  or  interested  rather 
than  stirred.  It  is  indeed  fundamentally  important  to  bear 
in  mind  that  it  is  not  enough  for  the  poet  to  interest  his 
audience  however  high  be  the  plane  on  which  that  interest 
may  exert  itself.  This  is  the  function  of  didacticism,  and 
didacticism  stands  at  diameters  to  poetry.  The  test  of 
poetry  is  not  whether  the  subject  interests  me,  but  whether 
it  is  beautiful  and  ennobling. 

Hence  Horace's  advice  not  to  treat  of  matters  "  nova  indictaque." 
Hence  the  practice  of  the  great  dramatists  the  world  over  to  choose 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  69 

subjects  familiar  to  the  audience,  who  were  not  to  be  distracted 
from  the  emotional  effect  by  curiosity  as  to  the  issue  of  the  story.^ 
Hence,  too,  the  failure,  as  pure  poetry,  of  some  of  Browning's 
work,  such  as  "  Sordello  " ;  for  great  as  the  intellectual  interest 
of  such  compositions  undoubtedly  is,  yet  it  remains  true  that 
it  is  interest  that  they  awaken  and  nothing  more.  We  find 
them  absorbing  and  penetrating  studies  of  character  and  attitudes, 
but  precisely  because  they  are  studies,  they  do  not  properly  belong 
to  the  category  of  pure  poetry. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  poet's  conception  must  be  new  in 
the  sense  that  it  must  be  newly  realized.  *It  must  be  not 
merely  a  borrowed  idea  expressed  anew,  with  whatever  de- 
lightfulness  of  phrase,  but  an  idea  at  least  felt  anew  and 
interpreted  anew,  and  so  re-uttered  with  the  stamp  of  the 
poet's  own  personality  upon  it.  The  idea  must  be  an  in- 
spiration to  him,  and  if  he  fails  of  finding  inspiration,  it 
means  that  he  lapses  into  "  fine  phrasing  "  (as,  for  instance, 
in  Pope's  "  Art  of  Criticism  "),  and  is  chargeable  with  that  in- 
sincerity arising  from  imperfect  feeling  which  was  dis- 
cussed under  the  preceding  heading. 

6.  Truth  of  Thought.  —  Our  next  question  is  akin  to  the 
last.  We  now  ask  whether  the  thought  of  the  poet  must 
be  true.  To  answer  this  we  must  mark  more  clearly  the 
distinction  intimated  in  the  opening  lines  of  this  chapter, 
between  the  two  classes  of  conceptions  that  enter  into 
poetry ;  that  is,  between  general  conceptions,  such  as  theories 
of  life,  principles,  views,  reflections,  and  the  like ;  and 
particular  conceptions,  such  as  incidents,  facts,  objects,  and, 
in  general,  the  subject  matter  of  narration  and  description. 
With  this  distinction  we  return  to  our  question  of  truth  in 
poetry. 

(a)  As  applied  to  general  conceptions^  it  should  be  obvious 
that  a  poet's  views  and  principles  must  be  governed  by  objec- 

1  See  Courthope,  "  Life  in  Poetry  and  Law  in  Taste,"  pp.  48  f. 


60  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

tive  truth,  and  cannot  under  toleration  be  false,  misleading, 
erroneous.  What  the  objective  standard  of  truth  may  be, 
what  views  or  judgments  are  true,  what  false,  is  quite 
another  question.  The  canon  of  poetic  criticism  is  that  they 
shall  not  be  professedly  false.^  Unless  his  reflections  be  pre- 
sumably true,  the  poet  cannot  exult  in  them ;  if  they  are 
obviously  false,  the  reader  cannot  be  moved  to  emotion  by 
virtue  of  them.  An  appeal  to  my  emotions  must  be  an  in- 
telligent appeal ;  and  the  intelligence  casts  out  what  is 
recognized  as  untrue.  Hence  truth  cannot  be  a  matter  of 
indifference.  One  may,  it  is  true,  be  stirred  by  a  fictitious 
fact,  as  we  shall  see,  but  this  is  because  of  the  true  principle 
or  idea  which  is  seen  to  underlie  the  fact  and  to  be  embodied 
by  it.  But  if  the  principle  itself  is  false,  what  is  its  worth 
at  all?  We  cannot  admire  a  deception.  We  are  not  in- 
spired by  an  absurdity.  I  cannot  rejoice  with  the  poet  who 
sings  to  me  that  pain  and  poverty  are  subjective  phantoms 
of  the  brain  ;  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  may  indeed  be  interested 
in  an  idea  that  I  know  to  be  false  ;  but,  as  we  have  tried  to 
insist,  to  create  mere  interest  is  not  the  business  of  poetry. 
Of  course,  both  poet  and  reader  may  be  emotionally  excited 
by  what  they  regard  as  true  but  is  objectively  false;  but 
this  is  due  to  the  chance  defect  of  their  mental  vision  in 
this  particular.  The  composition  in  this  case  chances  to  be 
poetical  subjectively  for  those  who  apprehend  the  false 
idea  as  true.  But  the  principle  we  are  maintaining  remains 
unaltered,  that  we  cannot  professedly  disregard  objective 
truth   in  writing  poetry,  or  overlook  the  poet's  truth  of 

1  The  contrary  view  is  of  course  very  prevalent  in  modern  criticism. 
See  for  instance  Swinburne  on  "Byron  and  Wordsworth";  also  A.  C. 
Bradley,  "Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry,"  pp.  4  and  5;  J.  E.  Spingarn, 
University  of  Columbia,  "  Lectures  on  Literature  "  ;  B.  Croce,  "^Esthetic," 
p.  42,  and  others;  all  of  whom  seem  to  intimate  that  it  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  whether  a  poet's  views  be  true  or  false  provided  they  be 
artistically  expressed. 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  61 

conception  in  criticizing  it,  and  that  we  do  not  reserve  one 
department  of  our  mind  for  art  and  another  for  our  reason, 
any  more  than  we  partition  off  into  incommunicable  cham- 
bers the  faculties  of  judging  art  and  morality. 

To  illustrate  this  principle  more  fully  we  may  have  recourse  to 
the  "  Iliad."  In  this  greatest  of  poems  we  find,  it  is  true,  "  a  scheme 
of  theology  which  more  than  two  thousa,nd  years  ago  was  repudi- 
ated by  the  philosophers;  a  view  of  nature  which  is  to-day  incred- 
ible to  the  schoolboy;  a  representation  of  warfare  which  must 
seem  ridiculous  to  the  soldier."  i  But  it  is  not  these  things  that 
we  admire  in  the  "  Iliad  " ;  they  precisely  "  militate  against  the  pro- 
duction of  the  desired  effect,"  and  if  the  interest  of  the  poem 
centred  in  them,  it  would  be  prized  only  by  the  antiquarian  and 
perhaps  by  the  stylist.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  these  untenable  con- 
ceptions of  God  and  Nature  are  mere  accidentals,  and  so  in  a 
general  appreciation  of  the  poem  are  negligible  factors,  —  negligible, 
that  is,  not  because  truth  and  error  are  negligible  considerations, 
but  because,  in  this  particular  poem,  the  element  of  error  is  in- 
significant in  quantity  and  in  prominence,  as  compared  with  the 
great  and  universal  truth  which  it  contains.  "  Nowhere  else, 
except  in  Shakespeare,  will  you  meet  with  so  many  characters 
which  are  immediately  perceived  to  be  living  imitations  of  man- 
kind; so  many  sentiments  which  at  once  move  the  affections;  so 
many  situations  of  elemental  interest  and  pathos."  ^  This  is  truth, 
and  it  is  this  in  Homer's  poetry  that  makes  its  greatness,  not  that 
which  is  false. 

(6)  We  have  seen  that  the  pnnciples  of  the  poet  must 
conform  to  truth;  we  are  now  to  inquire  into  the  truth 
demanded  of  the  poet's  incidents,  narratives,  descriptions. 
In  discussing  this  subject  we  are  to  distinguish  two  aspects 
of  truth,  the  truth  of  history  and  the  truth  of  fiction.  Tlie 
t'i'uth  of  history  is  the  conformity  of  the  writer's  conceptions 
with  what  has  actually  occurred,  i.e.  the  conformity  of  his 
narrative  with  some  definite  chain  of  events  that  has  come 

1  Courthope,  "Life  in  Poetry,"  p.  50.  2  Courthope,  I.  c. 


62  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

to  pass,  or  the  conformity  of  his  description  to  some  actual 
scene  in  nature  that  he  may  be  attempting  to  record.  Tlie 
truth  of  fiction  is  the  conformity  of  the  writer's  conceptions 
not  to  any  single  event  or  scene  of  his  actual  experience, 
but  to  the  general  laws  of  nature.  This  will  appear  more 
clearly  from  what  follows. 

6.  Truth  of  History.  —  The  truth  required  in  poetry  is 
normally  not  the  truth  of  history.  In  saying  this  we  are 
merely  pointing  out  a  phenomenon  that  is  common  to  all 
writers  of  fiction,  and  is  perfectly  obvious,  —  that  their 
office  is  not  to  record  what  has  actually  happened  or  to 
describe  an  object  which  has  actual  existence,  but  to  draw 
their  incidents  and  objects  from  the  resources  of  the 
imagination. 

We  say  this  is  normally  the  case.  For  the  poet  may,  of  course, 
elect  to  draw  his  theme  from  the  realm  not  of  imagination,  but  of 
fact,  in  which  case  he  must  be  guided,  at  least  in  essentials,  by 
the  truth  of  fact.  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  is  not  at  liberty  to 
portray  Richard  Til,  as  a  benign  king,  nor  to  alter  the  essential 
facts  of  his  career ;  nor  would  the  poet  who  professed  to  describe 
"  Albion's  England "  be  free  to  ignore  the  characteristic  features 
of  the  country  and  rely  entirely  on  his  imagination.  But  these 
restrictions  are  laid  upon  the  poet  by  the  nature  of  the  theme  he 
chooses,  not  by  the  essential  requirements  of  his  art. 

7.  Truth  of  Fiction.  —  As  the  poet's  object  is  to  convey 
an  emotion,  his  normal  business  is  to  invent  such  scenes 
and  actions  as  shall  effect  this  purpose.  To  do  this  there  is 
a  form  of  truth  by  which  he  must  be  guided.  This  we  call 
the  truth  of  fiction,  and  it  means  simply  that  he  must  not 
invent  improbabilities.  For  the  imagination  is  stirred  by 
the  semblance  of  reality,  and  the  semblance  is  destroyed  by 
what  is  improbable.  This  probability  consists  of  three 
elements.  The  details  of  the  poem  must  be  consistent; 
they  must  be  accountable;  they  must  be  natural. 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  63 

First  —  Consistency.  —  The  several  parts  of  a  scene  or 
character  or  action  must  be  consistent,  not  contradictory. 
The  second  part  must  not  be  incompatible  with  the  first. 
Even  though  such  contradictions  may  occur  from  time 
to  time  in  nature  itself,  still  it  is  not  the  exceptional, 
not  the  freak  of  nature,  that  is  the  poet's  rule  of  guid- 
ance in  his  invention,  but  what  happens  normally  and 
intelligibly. 

Thus,  in  the  "  Hecuba  "  of  Euripides,  Schlegel  finds  a  want  of 
consistency,  and  consequently  a  want  of  truth,  in  the  fact  that  the 
queen  "  aged,  feeble,  and  swooning  away  in  sorrow  should  after- 
wards display  so  much  presence  of  mind  in  the  exercise  of  her 
revenge  and  such  readiness  of  tongue  in  her  scornful  accusation 
of  Polymestor."! 

Secondly  —  Reasonableness.  —  The  incidents  of  a  narrative 
or  the  details  of  a  description  must  be  reasonable  or  ac- 
countable, —  such  as  are  likely  to  occur  in  the  given  circum- 
stances, such  as  are  explained  by  the  situation  that  the  poet 
has  created.  When  Macbeth  kills  Banquo,  we  must  under- 
stand the  motive  of  the  action,  else  we  do  not  admit  it 
into  our  minds  as  probable ;  we  are  not  convinced.  Here, 
too,  it  may  be  remarked,  as  in  the  preceding,  many  things 
unaccountable  actually  happen  in  the  experience  of  life, 
still  not  that  which  can  happen,  but  rather  that  which  hap- 
pens according  to  law,  is  the  theme  of  the  poet. 

King  John,  in  Shakespeare's  play,  is  poisoned  by  the  monks 
without  any  apparent  reason  or  motive.  Nothing  in  the  play  pre- 
pares us  for  this  denouement ;  consequently  when  it  transpires,  it 
strikes  the  reader  as  an  artificial  device  to  bring  the  action  to  a 
close;  it  is  wanting  in  the  truth  of  reasonableness.  Strange  to 
say,  this  very  defect  is  avoided  in  "  The  Glorious  Raigne,"  where 
the  poisoning  is  accounted  for  by  preceding  incidents. 

1  Schlegel,  "  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature." 


64  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

Thirdly  —  Naturalness.  —  The  poet  is  to  conform  himself 
to  what  he  observes  in  nature  acting  normally.  He  must,  as 
.we  say,  be  true  to  life.  Whether  it  be  the  nature  of  man  or 
physical  nature,  in  either  case  normal  modes  of  action,  nor- 
mal habits  of  thought,  the  normal  exhibition  of  passion,  must 
be  the  guides,  understanding  by  normal,  not  what  is  common- 
place, but  the  opposite  of  what  is  impossible,  accidental,  or 
extravagant.  Thus  a  hero  is  not  a  commonplace  type,  but  we 
do  not  consider  heroism  unnatural  or  abnormal.  But  on  the 
other  hand,  a  child  must  not  speak  in  the  accents  of  a  man, 
nor  Agamemnon  like  an  underling.  We  are  not  to  gild 
the  violet  nor  to  introduce  Athenian  goddesses  into  the 
drav^ing-room. 

Fr.  Mambrun,  S.  J.,  in  his  treatise  on  the  Epic  narrates  a  story 
which  illustrates  what  we  mean  by  the  abuse  of  this  truth  of 
naturalness.  "  I  remember,"  he  says,  "  reading  in  a  book  called 
*  Francus  Sagittarius '  how  Zerbinus  fell  in  love  with  the  maiden 
Florizel  and,  having  lost  hope  of  winning  her,  threw  himself  into 
the  sea.  ...  It  happened  that  fishermen  caught  Zerbinus  in 
their  net  and,  thinking  him  a  fsh,  laid  him  out  on  the  shore.  At 
that  very  moment  Queen  Florizel  happened  to  be  walking  on  the 
beach.  Wonderful  to  relate,  Zerbinus  gradually  comes  to,  not 
knowing  whether  he  is  alive  or  whether  he  is  still  in  the  waves,  and 
speaks  many  lovely  things  about  Florizel  in  her  very  presence."  ^ 
For  another  example  to  illustrate  this  same  defect,  see  Taine's 
remark  on  Pope's  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard,"  ^  where  after  calling  at- 
tention to  the  ornate  artificiality  of  the  language  which  Pope  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  the  passionate  lover,  he  remarks,  with  some 
asperity,  "  except  truth  nothing  is  wanting." 

8.  Truth  of  Fiction  in  Romantic  Poetry.  —  The  preceding 
principles  of  poetic  truth  are  implied  in  Aristotle's  doctrine 
that  poetry  is  an  imitation  of  nature.  They  are,  therefore, 
the  cardinal  dogmas  of  the  classic  school   of  poetry.     It 

1  Quoted  from  "  The  New  Laokoon,"  by  Irving  Babbitt. 

2  "  History  of  English  Literature,"  Book  III,  Chap.  VII. 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  65 

should  also  be  observed  that  they  are  not  mere  conventions, 
but  founded  on  the  very  nature  of  poetry.  For  the  object 
of  poetic  invention  is  to  impress  the  imagination,  to  produce 
an  illusion  of  reality ;  and  this  illusion  is  destroyed  by  what 
is  unnatural  or  improbable.  "Quidquid  ostendis  mihi  sic, 
incredulus  odi." 

And  yet  in  apparent  opposition  to  these  principles,  the 
romantic  element  in  poetry,  from  the  Odyssey  downwards, 
does  admit  characters  and  events  that  are  strange,  mysteri- 
ous, incredible  in  actual  life,  such  as  the  witches  in  "  Mac- 
beth," Titania  and  her  crew  in  '^  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  the  preternatural  action  in  the  "  Tempest."  Now 
even  Romance  must  preserve  the  illusion  of  nature ;  even  a 
fairy  tale  must  have  probability,  must  be  consistent,  must 
be  natural.  But  what  is  peculiar  to  this  type  of  composition 
is  that  the  writer  of  romance  composition  approaches  the 
principles  of  poetic  truth  in  a  slightly  modified  way.  The 
following  rules  explain  this  :  — 

(a)  The  poet  is  at  liberty  to  postulate  at  the  outset  a 
situation  that  transcends  nature.  He,  as  it  were,  invites 
the  reader  to  enter  with  him  into  a  new  and  strange  world. 
But  having  assumed  this  world,  he  invests  it  with  the  char- 
acter and  the  features  and  the  actions  that  are  appropriate 
to  it,  and  so  makes  what  is  actually  impossible  plausible  and 
natural,  once  the  situation  is  granted. 

(6)  Again,  the  poet  sometimes  justifies  his  preternatural 
conceptions  on  the  ground  that  they  are  part  of  the  accepted 
belief  of  the  readers  or  belong  to  the  traditional  setting  of 
his  theme ;  as  in  the  "  Morte  d'Arthur,"  "  Paradise  Lost," 
the  witch-scenes  in  "  Macbeth,  "  and  the  like.  In  this  case 
the  imagination  of  the  reader  is  prepared  by  custom  to 
accept  what  is  marvelous. 

(c)  And  lastly,  Aristotle  himself  makes  a  very  wide  con- 
cession, when  he  intimates  that  the  poet  may  so  carry  us 


66  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

onward  in  the  vehemence  of  feeling  that  in  our  excited  state 
of  soul  we  are  willing  to  believe  as  true  what  our  cold  reason 
would  reject  as  inconceivable.  It  is  on  this  ground  that 
Aristotle  defends  the  episode  in  the  Iliad  which  describes 
Achilles  dragging  the  body  of  Hector  round  the  walls  of 
Troy  amid  the  speechless  wonder  of  the  Achaean  host. 

9.  Idealization.  —  (1)  Bearing  in  mind  what  has  been 
said  of  truth,  we  are  in  a  position  to  understand  what  we 
may  regard  as  the  characteristic  of  poetic  work,  viz.,  the 
process  of  idealization.  Though  it  is  the  function  of  the 
poet  to  imitate,  that  is,  to  be  true  to  nature,  this  imitation 
will  never  be  a  literal  transcript  of  nature  in  all  its  details. 
Truth  in  narration  or  description  is  indispensable,  in  order 
that  the  poet  may  present  convincingly  his  subject  to  the 
reader.  But  he  must  do  more  than  this.  Through  his 
subject  he  must  also  convey  a  particular  impression  or 
emotion,  and  he  uses  description  and  narration  only  with  a 
view  to  giving  to  the  emotion  concrete  embodiment.  When 
we  look  at  a  scene  poetically,  we  not  only  see  it,  we  feel  it. 
And  it  is  the  office  of  the  poet  to  record  this  feeling  or 
impression. 

Now  in  every  object  as  it  exists  in  actual  life,  there  are 
features  that  help  this  impression,  and  other  distracting 
elements  that  are  commonplace,  ineffective,  and  consequently 
unsuitable.  These  indifferent  features  it  is  the  business  of 
the  artist  to  suppress  or  soften  down,  and  to  select  those 
that  are  suggestive.  In  other  words,  he  is  not  to  make  a 
mere  list  or  inventory  of  what  he  finds  in  the  scene,  or  what 
he  can  conjure  up  in  his  imagination,  but  to  use  discrimina- 
tion in  selecting  them,  this  discrimination  to  be  determined 
by  the  idea  he  wishes  to  express  in  painting  the  scene. 
This  is  the  first  process  of  idealization. 

Thus  Gray  in  the  "  Elegy  "  idealizes  the  scene  by  selecting  what 
suggests  the  solitude  and  pensiveness  of  nightfall.     He  might  have 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  67 

conceived  many  other  details  associated  with  the  scene,  such  as 
the  chill  of  evening,  the  smoke  curling  from  the  cottage,  the 
whistling  shepherd  lad,  and  what  not.  But  these  are  not  to  his 
purpose.  He  discards  them,  and  with  the  poet's  intuition,  records 
such  as  are  effective. 

In  the  same  way  the  dramatic  poet  idealizes  character  by  bring- 
ing into  relief  the  traits,  simple  and  complex,  that  make  up  the 
personality  as  conceived  by  the  poet,  and  by  suppressing  the  thou- 
sand irrelevancies  and  trivialities  which  enter  into  actual  conversa- 
tion, but  which  leave  no  distinct  impression  of  character. 

So  too,  plot  in  the  drama  is  action  idealized;  that  is,  action 
whose  parts  are  so  invented  and  so  woven  together  as  to  represent 
concretely  a  single  conception  or  theory  of  life. 

From  this  we  see  why  a  photograph  cannot  be  considered 
a  work  of  art.  The  only  approach  to  idealization  in  photog- 
raphy lies  in  the  photographer's  selection  of  his  subject,  but,  given 
the  subject,  the  camera  reproduces  merely  a  mechanical  inventory 
of  the  details.  On  the  other  hand,  when  the  mind  contemplates  any 
scene  or  object,  especially  in  an  emotional  attitude,  the  attention 
fixes  itself  on  some  one  aspect  of  it  in  particular ;  other  features 
are  noted  indistinctly  and  may  indeed  be  so  completely  overlooked 
that  we  remain  absolutely  unaware  of  their  presence.  Thus  the 
mind  is  ever  unconsciously  engaged  in  a  sort  of  process  of  ideali- 
zation. This  the  artist  does  with  his  brush,  and  the  poet  through 
the  power  of  language,  and  thus  both  give  a  truer  reproduction 
of  the  mental  perception  than  the  photograph,  which  registers 
every  detail  with  mechanical  impartiality. 

(2)  The  first  stage,  then,  of  idealization  is  a  process  of  se- 
lection. The  second  and  perhaps  the  more  important  part  is 
a  process  of  heightening;  that  is,  of  accentuating  the  effec- 
tiveness of  the  selected  details.  Karely,  as  was  said  in  a 
former  chapter,  is  the  poet  contented  with  mere  externals, 
however  judiciously  chosen.  He  breathes  a  new  life  into 
what  he  sees.  He  takes  the  object  into  bis  imagination 
and  brings  it  out  divested  of  what  is  mean,  trivial,  or 
commonplace,  and  glowing  with  a  new  light  and  possessing 


68  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

a  new  power  to  express  the  poet's  idea.  So  to  transform 
the  subject  and  the  details  of  his  poem  is  the  second  part  of 
idealization;  it  is  thus  referred  to  by  Wordsworth  in  the 
"  Prelude  " : 

An  auxiliar  light 
Came  from  my  mind,  which  on  the  setting  sun 
Bestowed  new  splendour : 

.  .  .  and  the  midnight  storm 
Grew  darker  in  the  presence  of  my  eyes. 

This  subject  was  alluded  to  when  treating  of  the  emo- 
tional effects  produced  by  the  imagination^  and  examples 
may  be  found  in  the  same  place.  As  was  there  remarked, 
the  poet  idealizes  in  this  way  chiefly  by  the  power  of  asso- 
ciation; that  is,  by  shedding  upon  his  subject  a  light  from 
other  beautiful  or  intense  objects.  This  he  does  by  meta- 
phor and  simile,  or  by  contrast,  or  by  thinking  of  his  sub- 
jects in  various  relations  to  other  beautiful  objects,  as  in 
the  examples  quoted ;  also  by  the  suggestive  power  of  his 
diction;  and  indeed  in  a  certain  sense  by  the  very  music 
of  the  verse.  In  other  words,  the  poet  makes  use  of  every 
single  instrument  of  his  art  to  aid  him  in  intensifying  to 
the  proper  tone  the  aspect  of  the  scene  or  action  or  person 
that  occurs  in  his  poem.^' 

We  may  glance  at  a  very  brief  example  in  Shelley's  "Dirge" 
(Golden  Treasury,  CCCXXXIV),  but  almost  every  line  of  every 
poem  is  an  illustration,  in  one  way  or  another,  of  idealization.  In 
this  example,  as  in  every  other,  it  is  impossible  to  analyze  the  whole 
secret  by  which  the  poet  brings  his  subject  into  emotional  relief, 
but  we  may  note  in  these  lines  the  attributes  of  human  sorrow  asso- 
ciated with  the  wind,  "  moanest  loud,"  "tears,"  "wailing";  the 
suggestion  of  the  coffin  and  the  tomb  in  "Knells,"  the  peculiar 
intensity  of  the  effect  in  "  Bare  woods,"  the  gloom  that  clings  round 

1  See  p.  39. 

2  On  Idealization,  see  Woodberry,  "The  Heart  of  Man."  Also  Ency- 
clopaedia Britannica,  s.v.  "  Fine  Arts." 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  69 

"  Deep  caves,"  and,  most  noticeable  of  all,  perhaps,  the  desolate 
impression  created  by  the  slow,  pausing  metre. 

10.  Realism.  —  Against  such  idealization  the  professed 
realist  takes  his  stand.  He  does  so  on  two  grounds.  First : 
Nature,  he  argues,  is  the  all-sufficient  theme  of  the  artist, 
however  low  the  type  of  nature  which  he  represents.  The 
pleasure  derived  from  the  literally  faithful  portrayal  of  life 
is  the  essence  of  aesthetic  enjoyment,  and  to  heighten,  to 
transform,  to  ennoble  a  subject  is  not  to  help  but  to  injure 
the  artistic  effect.^ 

Now^  such  a  principle  stands  in  opposition  to  the  whole 
theory  of  poetry  as  we  have  considered  it.  We  may  realize 
fully  the  imaginative  pleasure  alluded  to,  and  concede  that 
such  pleasure  is  derivable  from  the  skilful  representation  of 
human  character  under  any  aspect.  But  this  pleasure  does 
not  seem  to  be  the  pleasure  proper  to  poetry.  It  seems 
ultimately  reducible  to  what  we  should  call  "  interest," 
"  entertainment "  ;  and  merely  to  interest  and  entertain 
seems  to  be  the  proper  function  of  prose.  As  we  under- 
stand poetry,  its  object  is  to  elevate  the  soul,  not  to  amuse 
it.  The  pleasure  afforded  by  the  literal  transcript  of  an 
unnoble  character  cannot  rise  higher  than  entertainment  or 
interest,  however  low  it  may  fall. 

But  realism  has  another  quarrel  with  the  position  of  the 
idealist:  it  is  untrue.  To  exhibit  high  nobility  in  human 
character  is,  we  are  told,  simple  exaggeration.  Men  in 
actual  life  are  not  noble,  their  motives  are  not  lofty,  the 
passions  as  we  really  find  them  are  not  elevating  forces, 
but  the  contrary.     The  noble  character  as  conceived  by  the 

1  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  exaggerated  realist  often  descends  even  lower 
than  his  theory.  Though  he  professes  to  be  true  to  nature  and  to  abjure 
the  heightening  effect  of  ennobling  themes,  he  ends  by  portraying  not 
nature  in  its  entirety,  but  merely  what  is  disagreeable  and  degraded, 
and  even  what  is  literally  foul,  in  nature. 


70  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

idealist  is  so  rare,  so  exceptional  in  actual  experience  as  to  be 
abnormal  and  therefore  unnatural.^  The  idealist  transports 
us  out  of  this  world  into  another,  and  his  appeal  to  our 
imagination  is  flat  and  unconvincing.  —  The  answer  to  this 
contention  of  the  realist  will  serve  to  define  more  accurately 
the  limits  of  idealization  in  its  bearing  on  poetic  toth.  But 
first  let  us  remark  that  according  to  any  theory  of  art  there 
must  be  a  certain  exaggeration  in  the  artist's  portrayal,  that 
is,  a  certain  selection  of  details  to  the  neglect  of  others. 
There  never  was  in  life  a  conversation  so  compressed  and 
direct  as  even  the  realistic  dramatist  must  needs  employ. 
No  character  ever  reveals  himself  so  distinctly  in  a  short 
space  as  the  character  in  a  play.  Every  living  person  has 
minor  attributes  that  the  artist  neglects.  Such  portrayal 
neither  realism  nor  idealism  would  regard  as  a  departure 
from  the  truth  of  naturalness.  Both  the  realist  and  the 
idealist  do  in  fact  lay  stress  on  one  or  other  aspect  of  a 
personality,  in  order  to  arrest  the  attention  and  impress  the 
imagination  of  the  reader.  Only,  the  idealist  selects  and 
intensifies  the  higher  or  noble  aspect.  Now  to  say  that 
noble  traits  are  so  unusual  in  the  course  of  human  experi- 
ence as  to  be  abnormal  and  to  belong  to  the  category  of 
freaks  of  nature  is  a  statement  which,  though  it  can  hardly 
be  controverted  on  a  priori  grounds,  does  seem  to  be  mere 
cynicism.  Would  the  normal  man  of  all  ages  of  the  world 
concede  that  an  ignoble  view  of  humanity  was  the  only 
true  view  ?  Is  there  no  such  thing  in  the  world  as  heroism 
or  devotion  or  ennobling  love  ?  Is  even  the  lofty  love  that 
is  the  theme  of  Francis  Thompson's  "  Love  in  Dian's  Lap," 
so  unreal  as  to  be  unconvincing  to  the  imagination  of  man  ? 
The  answer  must  eventually  rest  with  each  individual. 

11,    The  Limitations  of  Idealism.  —  Idealism  in  art,  quite  as 
well  as  realism,  holds  to  the  canon  that  the  truth  of  natural- 
1  See  what  was  said  above  about  truth  to  nature. 


THOUGHT  IN  POETRY  71 

ness  must  be  sedulously  safeguarded,  that  the  delineation  of 
life  must  not  be  so  exalted  as  to  leave  the  impression  of  un- 
reality, that  idealization  must  not  be  carried  to  such  an  ex- 
treme that  the  imagination  of  the  reader  refuses  to  follow. 
And  so  the  canon  of  truth  sets  a  limit  to  the  canon  of  ideali- 
zation. \^L\  actual  life,  which  is  the  standard  of  naturalness, 
while  we  refuse  to  admit  that  no  man  is  noble  or  has  his 
noble  aspect,  we  must  needs  grant  that  every  man,  if  re- 
garded with  any  degree  of  completeness,  is  imperfect,  that 
no  man  is  free  from  fault  or  exempt  from  human  weakness. 
It  follows  that,  when  a  human  character  is  represented  in 
detail,  as  happens  in  the  drama,  truth  requires  it  to  be  in- 
vested with  faults  as  well  as  virtues.  The  imagination  is 
less  impressed  by  flawless  perfection  than  by  a  nobility  tinc- 
tured with  defects  that  humanize  it.  Aristotle  himself  re- 
quires that  his  hero  be  less  than  a  perfect  being.  Therefore 
a  balance  must  be  struck  between  naturalness  and  the  select- 
ing and  heightening  process  of  idealism.  To  what  precise 
degree  imperfections  may  be  emphasized  and  exploited  must 
be  left  to  the  judgment  of  the  poet.  The  point  to  bear  in 
mind  is  this,  that  they  are  introduced  not  for  their  own  sake, 
but  as  a  check  upon  exaggeration,  as  a  necessary  means  of 
convincing  the  imagination,  lest  the  portrait  of  nobility  with- 
out imperfection  fail  to  produce  the  impression  of  reality. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Show  the  absence  of  clear,  definite  thinking  in  Golden 
Treasury,  CCXXXH,  CCXXXIX,  CCCVII,  and  compare  with  the 
following  in  the  same  respect :     CCLXXXVI,  CCCI,  CCCIV. 

2.  Show  how  the  thought  is  ill-adapted  to  the  elevation  of  the 
imagery  in  CCXLII. 

3.  Show  how  Shakespeare  succeeds  in  producing  the  impression 
of  insincerity  in  the  protestations  of  affection  expressed  by  Goneril 
and  Regan.     See  "King  Lear,"  Act  I,  Sc.  1,  11.  50-75. 


72  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

4.  A  false  ideal  in  Golden  Treasury,  CCCXXVI. 

5.  Observe  from  what  point  of  view  nature  is  idealized  in  CCCIIl 
and  CLXXXVI;  and  character  idealized  in  CCXVII  and  CCXX. 

6.  For  the  expression  of  curious  rather  than  emotional  views, 
the  student  may  examine  Robert  Browning's  "  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic  " ;  and,  for  excessive  realism  in  description,  the  same  writer's 
"A  Likeness." 

7.  Point  out  a  curious  want  of  consistency  in  Horace's  descrip- 
tion of  Cleopatra  in  "  Odes,"  Book  I,  No.  37. 

8.  Why  would  you  call  Golden  Treasury,  CCXXXVII  an  im- 
pressionist poem  ?  Describe  as  accurately  as  possible  the  impression 
it  creates. 


CHAPTER  V 
Expression 

1.  The  Medium  of  Expression.  —  The  principles  laid  down 
in  the  preceding  sections  concerning  the  emotional,  imagi- 
native, and  intellectual  elements  in  poetry  will  be  found, 
mutatis  mutandis,  to  be  common  to  all  the  fine  arts.  For 
each  one  of  the  arts,  in  its  own  degree  and  after  its  own 
fashion,  aims  to  exhibit  emotion,  and  makes  its  appeal  to 
the  emotions  through  the  mind  and  imagination;  and  so  the 
laws  that  govern  the  artistic  handling  of  these  three  facul- 
ties are  fundamentally  the  same  whether  poetry  be  concerned, 
or  painting,  sculpture,  music. 

But  we  now  turn  our  attention  to  that  which  differentiates 
these  arts  from  one  another,  viz.,  to  the  medium  by  which 
the  emotion,  the  emotional  idea,  and  the  imaginative  percep- 
tion are  externalized,  that  is,  are  transferred  from  the  mind 
of  the  artist  who  conceives  them  to  the  work  of  art,  and  so 
to  the  minds  of  other  men  who  hear  or  read  or  behold.  In 
the  art  of  poetry  this  medium  is  language.  As  the  painter 
uses  color  and  surface-form  to  give  expression  to  his  concep- 
tions, and  as  the  musician  uses  musical  sound,  so  the  poet 
uses  the  word,  the  phrase. 

2.  The  Superiority  of  Language  as  a  Medium.  —  And  here  we 
may  observe  that,  if  we  compare  together  these  three  vehicles 
of  expression,  if  we  compare  language,  musical  sound,  and 
the  painter's  colors,  we  shall  find  that  each  has  its  own  effec- 
tiveness, and  each  its  own  limitations;  yet  that,  all  consid- 
ered, poetry  possesses  in  language  a  more  perfect  power  to 

73 


74  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

reach  the  mind  and  heart  of  man  than  any  other  art.  For 
painting  exhibits  directly  to  the  mind  the  form  and  color  of 
the  concrete  object,  and  does  this  with  an  exactness  and 
vividness  that  it  is  impossible  for  language  to  emulate ;  music 
too,  through  harmony  and  melody,  represents  the  nearest 
approach  we  can  conceive  to  the  direct  expression  of  emotion, 
and  what  music  achieves  by  direct  expression  poetry  can 
only  suggest.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  neither  painting  nor 
music  has  the  power  to  express  directly  the  thought  itself  of 
the  mind;  they  can  but  suggest  it  with  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctness, often  with  only  the  faintest  intimation.  The 
power  to  express  thought  directly  belongs  to  poetry  through 
the  medium  of  language.  This  gives  an  immense,  breadth 
and  power  to  poetry.  There  are  endless  delicate  shades 
of  thought  which  can  never  be  represented  or  suggested 
by  music  or  painting,  or  by  any  mere  image  of  an  external 
object,  but  which  do  come  within  the  range  of  language  to 
express,  to  say  nothing  at  all  of  images  which  lie  outside  the 
power  of  any  vehicle  but  language  to  convey.  Any  poem 
at  all  will  reveal  this  superiority  of  poetry  over  the  other  arts  ; 
any  poem,  even  the  most  purely  external  and  descriptive, 
will  contain  conceptions  that  are  beyond  the  power  of  any 
art  but  poetry  to  convey. 

3.  Thought  and  Expression. — Before  proceeding  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  poet's  use  of  language,  we  must  understand 
correctly  the  relation  that  exists  between  thought  and  ex- 
pression. In  this  matter  two  extremes  are  to  be  avoided. 
We  are  not  to  consider  expression  as  an  embellishment  super- 
added to  the  thought.  But  neither  are  we  to  consider  thought 
and  expression  identical  and  inseparable.  Expression  is 
neither.  It  is  a  replica  of  the  thought,  but,  like  every  rep- 
lica, distinct  from  the  original. 

4.  Expression  —  the  Externalizing  of  the  Writer's  Mind.  — 
First,  then,  we  say  that  style  is  a  replica  of  the  writer's 


EXPRESSION  75 

thought,  and  by  thought,  in  this  connection,  we  understand 
the  conception  in  the  concrete  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of 
the  writer ;  that  is,  suffused  with  his  personality,  his  imagi- 
nation, his  emotion ;  in  other  words,  the  writer's  impression 
in  its  totality.  The  expression  is  an  image  of  this  colored 
thought.  It  is  not  a  decoration  laid  on  by  a  sort  of  after- 
process,  designed  to  make  a  dull  thought  beautiful.  We  are 
not  to  think  of  the  poet,  any  more  than  of  the  writer  of 
prose,  as  first  conceiving  an  idea,  and  then,  as  it  were,  pro- 
ceeding to  disguise  its  nakedness  by  an  elegant  vesture  of 
words,  patching  together  tropes  and  figures,  this  image  and 
that,  and  smoothing  all  by  a  succession  of  melodious  vowel 
and  consonant  sounds.  But  rather,  whatever  imagery  is 
presented  in  the  expression  is  found  there  because  the 
imagery  represents  the  manner  of  the  poet's  thinking ;  if  the 
language  is  figurative,  it  is  because  the  poet  thought  in 
figures ;  if  it  is  musical,  it  is  because  the  idea  in  the  poet's 
exalted  emotional  state  was  itself  musical  in  his  mind. 
Thus  the  expression  is  the  photograph  of  the  poet's  soul. 

Thus,  to  use  a  very  simple  example,  if  I  should  write  '*  To-day 
the  temperature  is  low ;  the  sky  is  overcast ;  and  spirits  run  low," 
one  may  say,  if  one  must,  that  this  is  the  same  idea,  in  the  naked 
abstract,  as  is  expressed  in  the  verse, 

"  The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary.'* 

But  no  one  would  say  that  they  both  stand  for  the  same  man- 
ner of  thinking,  nor  did  the  poet  conceive  the  idea  as  first  ex- 
pressed, and  then  undertake  to  condense  it  and  to  versify  it,  till  it 
took  the  second  shape.  The  thoughts  themselves  are  different  in 
their  emotional  and  imaginative  values.  The  second  expression 
is  the  photograph  of  the  thought  of  a  poet,  the  first  the  photo- 
graph of  the  thought  of  a  diarist  or  annalist. 

To  conceive  style  otherwise,  to  conceive  it  not  as  a  mere  externa- 
lizing of  the  mind  of  the  writer,  but  as  a  dress  for  thought,  leads 
to  artificiality  and  affectation  in  the  use  of  language.     It  worked 


76  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

this  pesult  in  the  followers  of  Pope  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
Pope  had  announced  that  "  expression  was  the  dress  of  thought," 
and  his  imitators,  without  his  wit  or  genius,  undertook  to  borrow 
the  dress  he  had  woven,  to  clothe  their  own  meagre  conceptions, 
and  hence  their  words,  proceeding  not  from  the  heart,  but  culled 
from  an  external  source,  lost  their  power  to  charm  the  reader. 

Note  the  tiresome  diffuseness  of  the  following,  —  the  otiose  epi- 
thets, the  inevitable  apostrophe,  the  mythological  machinery,  the 
artificial  balancing  of  phrases,  and  general  want  of  inspiration  :  — 

Winds  of  the  north,  restrain  your  icy  gales, 
Nor  chill  the  bosom  of  these  happy  vales. 
Hence  in  dark  heaps,  ye  gathering  clouds,  revolve, 
Disperse,  ye  lightnings,  and  ye  mists,  dissolve ; 
Hither  emerging  from  your  orient  skies. 
Botanic  Goddess,  bend  thy  radiant  eyes  ; 
O'er  these  soft  scenes  assume  thy  gentle  reign, 
Pomona,  Ceres,  Flora  in  thy  train. 

—  Darwin,  '.'The  Botanic  Garden." 

When  this  goes  on  for  page  after  page,  the  mind  of  the  reader 
grows  torpid  and  ceases  to  act ;  and  the  reason  is  that  the  mind 
of  the  writer  had  ceased  to  act  first ;  not  thought,  but  words  were 
his  concern. 

5.   But  not  Identical  with  the  Writer's  Impression.  —  But 

if  style  is  not  the  mere  dress  of  thought,  neither  is  it  iden- 
tical with  thought.  This  would  seem  unnecessary  to  deny, 
were  it  not  insisted  upon  by  recent  critics  in  their  protest 
against  the  opposite  error.^  Many  a  man  has  the  thought, 
the  emotion,  the  exalted  imagination  of  the  poet,  and  yet 
remains  destitute  of  the  complementary  gift  that  would 
make  of  him  a  poet,  the  gift  of  expression.  And  was  there 
ever  a  poet  who  for  all  his  gift  of  expression  could  adequately 
render  into  language  what  was  in  his  heart  ?     Expression 

1  See,  for  instance,  Mr.  A.  C.  Bradley,  "  Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry," 
Lecture  I.     Also  B.  Croce,"  -S^sthetic,"  Chap.  I. 


EXPRESSION  77 

after  all  is  only  a  shadowy  image  of  the  soul,  and  every 
language  is  in  a  measure  a  foreign  language  to  the  heart 
of  man. 

Vabious  Aspects  of  Stylb 

Having  established  the  foregoing  principles,  we  come  now 
to  the  use  which  the  poet  makes  of  language,  and,  as  in  ex- 
amining the  substance  of  poetry  we  considered  the  emotions, 
the  imagination,  and  the  intellect,  so  too  in  the  matter  of  ex- 
pression we  may  have  recourse  to  the  same  division,  and 
treat  of  the  intellectual,  imaginative,  and  emotional  aspects 
of  style. 

6.  The  Intellectual  Aspect  of  Style.  —  Here  we  may  class 
the  structural  features  of  composition,  the  building  up  of 
the  poem  into  a  complete  and  organized  whole.  It  is  this 
structural  design  in  any  work  of  art  that  manifests  a  guid- 
ing intelligence  operating  in  its  production.  Design  implies 
purpose,  the  conscious  contemplation  of  an  end  and  concen- 
tration in  the  pursuit  of  it.  It  is  the  precise  note  that  dis- 
tinguishes intelligent  workmanship  from  the  work  of  chance 
or  unregulated  impulse.  Hence,  though  it  may  be  too  much 
to  say  that  the  structure  of  the  poem  is  the  most  important 
of  all  the  elements  of  composition,  we  must  believe,  with 
Aristotle,  that  the  structure,  or  rather  the  purpose  that 
organizes  the  structure,  governs  every  other  feature  of  style, 
and  that  everything  else  is  valuable  simply  in  proportion 
as  it  reaches  towards  the  purpose  contemplated  in  the 
whole  work. 

(a)  Unity. — The  first  result  .of  purpose,  and  conse^ 
quently  the  first  manifestation  of  structural  design,  is 
unity.  The  writer  looking  towards  his  single  end  will 
choose  and  reject  with  that  in  view.  What  turns  him  aside 
from  that,  however  slightly,  will  be  repudiated  unsparingly ; 
what  contributes  to  his  end  will  be  consistently  adopted. 


78  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

He  will  begin  his  work  decisively,  and,  when  his  end   is 
fully  secured,  will  be  decisive  in  making  a  conclusion. 

In  narrative  poetry  this  essential  unity  will  forbid  loitering 
over  a  more  or  less  irrelevant  introduction  or  sauntering  on  after 
the  story  is  finished.  In  lyric  poetry  a  single  emotional  idea, 
complex  it  may  be,  but  still  coherent,  will  be  introduced,  will  be 
developed,  will  be  finished,  with  precision,  without  defect  and 
without  superfluity.^ 

(6)  Progression  or  Climax.  —  This  is  the  second  feature 
of  structural  composition.  Dominated  still  by  the  inspiring 
purpose  of  his  work,  the  writer  progresses  without  halt  to 
its  accomplishment.  He  does  not  run  forward  and  back- 
ward, uncertainly,  as  if  bewildered;  every  step  is  a  distinct 
advance  toward  the  goal.  This  progression  achieves  the 
kind  of  climax  that  is  required  in  every  artistic  work  of 
whatever  kind. 

In  a  narrative  the  progression  is  toward  the  denouement, 
while  the  significance  of  each  episode  gathers  in  intensity  as  one 
succeeds  the  other  toward  the  end.  The  progression  of  a  lyric 
may  be  either  the  progression  of  amplification,  where  the  lyrical 
thought  is  intensified  by  accumulated  details,  as  in  Nash's  "  Spring 
Song,"  or  by  extension,  where  the  introductory  conception  opens 
out  into  another,  and  this  into  a  third,  and  so  on,  until  the  thought 
is  set  forth  in  its  completeness,  as  in  Herrick's  "  Daffodils." 

(c)  Proportion.  —  Purpose  still  will  be  the  determining 
factor  here.  For  it  is  this  that  decides  the  relative  value 
of  the  parts  that  make  up  the  whole  of  the  poem ;  and  to 
give  due  value  to  the  parts  is  what  we  call  proportion. 
A  keen  concentration  upon  his    purpose  will   prevent  the 

1  It  is  the  purpose  of  the  present  chapter  to  examine  the  broad  outlines 
of  structure  and  the  theory  underlying  them.  The  details  that  govern 
the  building  of  the  epic,  the  tragedy,  and  the  lyric,  are  treated  in  the 
special  chapters  devoted  to  the  species  of  poetry,  where  also  examples 
are  to  be  found. 


EXPRESSION  79 

writer  from  hovering  unduly  over  a  detail  that  is  attractive 
in  itself,  but  is  of  little  value  for  the  general  end  in  view. 

Thus  in  a  narrative  he  will  not  develop  every  episode  to  the 
sarae  degree ;  nor  will  he  be  tempted  to  develop  it  because  of  its 
own  isolated  effectiveness,  but  because  of  its  effectiveness  as  a 
contribution  to  the  purpose  aimed  at  in  the  whole  tale.  And  in 
lyric  poetry,  too,  proportion  postulates  a  greater  prominence  for 
the  main  idea  than  for  its  subsidiaries,  which  greater  prominence 
is  secured  sometimes  by  more  extended,  sometimes  by  more 
emphatic,  treatment. 

Note.  —  We  have  called  the  foregoing  qualities  the 
intellectual  features  of  expression;  but  it  must  be  borne 
in  mind  that  they  cannot  be  properly  secured  by  the  in- 
tellect alone  without  the  aid  of  emotion  and  imagination. 
In  poetry  not  even  the  outline  can  be  effectively  sketched 
by  a  logical  process  merely.  It  is  only  under  the  stimulus 
of  these  two  other  powers  that  the  mind  can  infuse  into 
the  plan  the  spirit  of  life.  Any  plan  of  a  poem  that  is  the 
product  of  cold,  intellectual  effort  is  a  skeleton  literally, 
and  however  garbed  in  language  will  in  all  likelihood 
never  possess  more  than  the  semblance  of  life.  When  the 
poet  works  in  the  right  way,  his  plan  does  not  appeal  to  his 
mind  as  a  row  of  propositions;  it  comes  to  him,  not  as  a 
skeleton,  but  rather  as  a  shadowy  vision,  which,  impressed 
by  his  own  mind,  as  it  acts  under  the  stimulus  of  emotion 
and  imagination,  grows  into  shape,  into  greater  and  greater 
distinctness,  unity,  order,  and  proportion. 

Important  as  is  this  feature  of  style,  it  must  be  said  that  it 
is  not  the  virtue  most  characteristic  of  our  own  literature.  English' 
poets  have  been  prone  to  undervalue  structural  effects  in  the 
pursuit  of  details  and  in  the  indulgence  of  impulse.  Chaucer 
himself,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  interest  himself  and  his  readers 
in  a  narrative,  finds  it  possible  in  the  "  Nonnes  Preestes  Tale  " 
to  wander  away  into  two  other  totally   distinct  stories  and  to 


80  THE  NATUBE  OF  POETRY 

consume  with  these  nearly  one  fourth  of  his  total  number  of 
lines.  Shakespeare,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  write  a  play,  can 
halt  the  action  of  his  most  rapid  tragedy,  "  Macbeth,"  with  a  long 
and  needless  dialogue  between  Malcolm  and  Macduff.  And 
other  poets,  with  more  perhaps  of  a  lyrical  than  narrative  in- 
stinct, such  as  Spenser,  Keats,  Wordsworth,  and  others,  sometimes 
show  scant  courtesy  to  structural  form  at  all.  English  critics 
sometimes  allege  that  English  poets  sacrifice  structure  for  the 
sake  of  vitality,  as  if  structure  and  life  were  in  some  way  antitheti- 
cal, whereas  in  truth  structure  is  the  manifestation  of  the  highest 
life  in  man,  the  life  of  intelligence.  What  this  really  amounts 
to  is  that  we  sacrifice,  not  structure  for  life,  but  the  life  of 
the  intellect  for  the  life  of  the  undisciplined  emotions,  —  which 
is  a  more  than  questionable  sacrifice. 

7.  The  Imaginative  Aspect  of  Style. — Under  this  head 
we  may  class  descriptive  language,  graphic  nouns  and 
verbs,  profuse  epithets,  word-pictures,  similes  and  meta- 
phors, and  the  various  other  picturesque  resources  of  words, 
that  assimilate  poetry  in  some  degree  to  the  art  of  painting. 

But  it  is  of  importance  first  to  note  the  difference  between 
the  resources  of  expression  as  found  in  these  two  arts.  There 
are  two  points  of  contrast  between  poetry  and  painting  from 
which  we  derive  principles  governing  poetic  expression. 

(a)  Poetry  and  Painting.  —  The  first  of  these  is  that 
painting  exhibits  the  concrete  object  directly  to  the  sense  of 
sight,  whereas  poetry  addresses  directly  not  the  eye  but  the 
imagination,  i.e.  the  mental  imaging  power  of  the  reader. 
Hence  the  poet  must  rely  for  his  effectiveness  upon  the 
activity  of  this  faculty  in  those  for  whom  he  writes.  If  the 
painter  puts  the  rainbow  on  the  canvas,  it  is  inevitable  that 
the  spectator  should  see  its  details ;  if  the  poet  puts  it  in 
verse,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  reader  will  get  the  idea  of 
the  rainbow  without  the  image  of  the  rainbow,  and  hence  lose 
its  precise  poetic  value.  Hence  it  may  not  be  sufficient  for 
the  poet  merely  to  name  a  concrete  object,  but  he  will  be 


EXPRESSION  81 

under  the  necessity  of  stimulating  the  imagination  by  the 
force  and  vividness  of  his  verbal  presentation  of  it.  He 
will  emphasize  by  his  choice  of  diction  a  graphic  detail ;  he 
will  substitute  the  striking  features  of  a  scene  for  its  more 
commonplace  aspect. 

Instead  of  writing  "  The  host  of  Cherubim  plucked  their  swords 
from  the  scabbard,"  Milton  fires  the  imagination  with  the  words :  — 

Outflew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thighs 
Of  mighty  Cherubim.  —  "Paradise  Lost,"  Book  1, 11.  663-665. 

Instead  of  "  the  boat  was  swept  over  the  sea  by  the  wind," 
Shelley  writes :  — 

A  whirlwind  swept  it  on 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 

—  "  Alastor," 

And  Shakespeare,  describing  the  morning  sun  illumining  mountain, 
meadow  and  stream,  pours  out  his  heart  in  these  glowing  words :  — 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green. 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. 

—  Sonnet  33. 

Thus  by  the  keen  emphasis  of  language  the  poet  may  rival  and 
surpass  the  vividness  of  the  painting. 

Among  other  advantages  which  this  appeal  to  the  im- 
agination rather  than  to  the  sense  of  sight  puts  in  the 
hands  of  the  poet  is  the  power  of  comparison.  This  the 
painter  can  only  suggest  in  the  remotest  degree ;  the  poet 
ranges  through  heaven  and  earth,  whatever  his  subject  may 
be,  and  can  illustrate,  enrich,  and  intensify  it  by  association 
with  the  beauty  of  the  universe.  Of  this  gift  of  comparison 
the  poet  makes  unsparing  use  ;  and  it  shows  the  richness  of 
poetry  to  observe  how  almost  every  line  of  verse  calls  on 


82  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

this  practice  of  comparison,  by  the  employment  of  simile, 
metaphor,  or  the  lighter  and  quicker  suggestiveness  of 
implied  metaphor.^ 

(h)  In  description,  not  of  action  or  movement,  but  of  an 
extended  stationary  object,  such  as  a  landscape,  or  an  edifice, 
or  the  human  countenance,  poetry  stands  at  a  certain  dis- 
advantage to  painting.  The  reason  is,  our  mind  has  been 
educated  through  the  senses  to  take  in  the  details  of  such  an 
object  (let  us  say,  of  a  landscape)  more  or  less  simultaneously. 
It  gathers  the  picture  as  a  practically  united  whole,  as 
a  single,  complex  impression.  This  is  so  far  the  case 
that  it  is  impossible  to  get  any  proper  impression  of  a  land- 
scape by  examining  it  piecemeal.  No  one,  for  instance,  can 
form  an  effective  image  of  a  panorama  of  hills  and  forest  and 
river  by  examining  it  in  small  separate  sections,  as  if  through 
a  field  glass,  nor  of  a  cathedral  by  studying  separately  the 
details  of  spire,  portal,  gable ;  nor  of  the  beauty  of  a  face 
by  a  separate  scrutiny  of  eyes,  brow,  lips.  The  effectiveness 
in  each  case  comes  not  from  the  details  but  from  the  tout 
ensemble,  and  the  imagination  seems  powerless  (perhaps  be- 
cause it  is  not  habitually  called  on  in  this  way)  to  construct 
the  ensemble  from  the  separate  perception  of  the  parts. 
For  an  effective  image  of  the  whole  we  must  see  the  details 
simultaneously. 

Now  painting,  of  course,  does  furnish  the  details  of  scene 
or  feature  in  a  single  view.  But  poetry  from  the  nature  of 
language  must  convey  the  details  successively,  in  fragments, 
one  after  another.  It  cannot  give  the  assemblage  of  them 
at  once.  Hence  it  cannot  vividly  convey  a  picture  of  a 
detailed  stationary  obj  ect.  After  enumerating  the  details  the 
imagination  fails  to  piece  them  together  satisfactorily,  and 
at  best  a  vague  impression  is  the  result. 

This  limita-tion  of  poetry  in  description  was  mentioned 
1  See  chapter  on  Poetic  Diction. 


EXPRESSION  83 

by  Lessing  in  the  "  Laokoon,"  but  we  must  note  that  it  is 
not  a  matter  of  theory  in  the  least,  but  a  fact  of  actual  ex- 
perience, which  we  may  verify  at  any  moment.  Let  any  one 
for  instance  ask  himself  whether  after  reading  Tennyson's 
"  Lotus  Eaters  "  he  can  view  that  landscape  as  a  whole,  or 
after  reading  the  description  of  Helen  quoted  in  the  "  Laok- 
oon  "  (Chapter  XX)  he  can  form  an  image  of  these  details 
taken  together. 

Why,  then,  we  may  ask,  do  the  poets  so  utterly  disregard 
this  fact  of  experience  ?  Why  do  Spenser,  Keats,  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Wordsworth,  and  others,  revel  in  such  extended 
description?  The  reason  is  precisely  that  they  are  con- 
tent to  convey  a  vague  image.  And  in  poetry  this  is 
often  perfectly  legitimate.  What  is  essential  in  poetry  is 
not  the  landscape,  but  the  emotional  impression,  and,  if 
landscape  is  employed,  it  is  only  as  a  means  of  heightening 
this  emotional  result.  Consequently  the  poet  may  attempt 
to  use  a  series  of  impressional  details,  little  caring,  provided 
they  be  coherent  and  intelligible,  whether  or  not  they 
blend  in  our  imagination  into  a  simultaneous  whole.  How 
much  of  Vergil's  scenery  is  almost  studiously  vague,  yet 
without  failing  for  this  reason  of  its  poetic  power.  It  seems 
to  be  a  misconception  of  the  nature  of  poetry  and  ultimately 
a  confusion  of  the  ends  of  the  two  arts  of  painting  and 
poetry,  to  debar  it  the  use  of  extended  description  of  station- 
ary objects  because  it  cannot  render  them  as  distinctly  as 
painting. 

8.  Suggestive  Description.  —  But  besides  detailed  descrip- 
tion the  poet  has  discovered  the  means  of  suggesting  a  scene 
or  an  impression  by  the  magic  of  a  single  word  or  phrase. 
This  is  the  art  of  suggestive  word-painting.  Words,  simple 
and  insignificant  taken  separately,  become  endowed  with 
a  new  and  strange  vitality  when  thus  skilfully  combined, 
and  the   phrase   exercises   a   kind  of   spell  over  the   im- 


84  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

agination  which  the  word-elements  of  the  phrase  do  not 
account  for. 

Thus,  to  quote  an  example  from  Coleridge,  Prospero  tells 
Miranda  in  "  The  Tempest "  : 

One  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan,  and,  in  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me  and  thy  crying  self.  —  Act  I,  Sc.  2, 11.  128  ff. 

The  single  phrase  "  thy  crying  self  "  seizes  the  imagination  more 
potently  than  any  list  of  details.  For  other  examples,  see  chapter 
on  Poetic  Diction. 

The  power  of  such  phrase  lies  beyond  analysis,  yet  some 
of  the  secret  we  may  possibly  discover.  It  partly  resides  in 
the  power  of  the  poet  to  seize  upon  the  word  that  will  best 
express  the  impressional  heart  and  core  of  the  situation  ; 
partly  in  the  very  unexpectedness  of  the  combination  of 
words,  united  with  its  appropriateness,  which  startles  and 
spurs  into  activity  the  imagination  of  the  reader ;  partly,  at 
least  in  many  instances,  in  the  contributing  suggestiveness 
of  the  vowel  and  consonant  sounds  and  the  metrical  music.^ 

The  use  of  suggestive  word-painting,  so  prevalent  a  re- 
source in  latter-day  poetry,  lies  open  to  one  danger.  It  is 
the  liability  to  think  more  of  the  phrase  than  of  the  idea 
underlying  the  phrase,  the  danger  of  admiring  the  phrase 
for  its  own  sake,  which  is  the  cardinal  sin  of  all  expression. 
The  very  fact  that  the  phrase  is  startling,  that  the  combina- 
tion of  words  is  itself  impressive,  tends  to  arrest  attention 
to  them,  and  when  this  attention  to  the  phrase  overbalances 
the  attention  to  the  thing  expressed,  the  poet  is  convicted 
of  merely  weaving  words,  and  genuine  poetry  has  ceased. 
Thus  Matthew  Arnold  has  observed  that,  in  the  single  poem, 

1  See  chapter  on  Versification. 


EXPRESSION  85 

"Isabella,"  Keats  uses  a  greater  number  of  such  artful 
phrases  than  is  to  be  found  in  all  the  works  of  Shakespeare. 

9.  The  Emotional  Aspect  of  Expression.  —  To  what  we  may 
call  the  emotional  aspect  of  expression  belong  various  turns 
of  phrase,  various  abnormal  modes  of  utterance,  which  are 
prompted  by  the  emotional  attitude  of  the  writer,  and  so 
tend  to  awaken  an  emotional  state  in  the  reader.  These 
are  treated  in  the  chapter  on  Poetic  Diction. 

But  the  chief  medium  of  emotional  expression  lies  in  the 
music  of  language.  Music  itself  being  the  purest  expression 
of  emotion,  poetry  has  adopted  the  resources  of  this  art  and 
has  created  for  itself  a  conventional  rhythmical  and  melodic 
system,  reduced  more  or  less  to  rule  and  precept,  which  we 
call  the  art  of  prosody.  The  details  of  this  must  be  re- 
served for  a  separate  section  of  this  book.  In  general,  how- 
ever, we  may  remark  as  follows : 

(a)  It  is  not  easy  to  overrate  the  importance  of  metre  and 
melody  as  a  factor  in  the  expression  of  emotion.  The 
verse-music  of  the  highest  poetry  contributes  more  than  any 
other  single  element  of  pure  expression  to  cast  an  emotional 
spell  over  the  mind,  contributes  more  to  this  effect  than  any- 
thing else  except  the  idea  itself  and  the  image  that  the 
line  of  poetry  conveys.  Indeed,  we  need  not  except  the 
idea  and  image,  for  in  some  not  wholly  mysterious  way 
these  also  are  wrapped  up  with  and  become  an  integral  part 
of  the  music  itself.  Often  the  most  splendid  lines  may  be 
robbed  of  their  power  not  only  by  an  alteration  of  the  metre, 
but  by  a  dislocation  of  the  cadence  that  underlies  the  metre. 

Let  us  take  for  example  the  splendid  lines  of  Romeo  standing 
by  the  tomb  of  Juliet :  — 

O,  here 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
From  this  world-wearied  flesh.  —  Act  V,  Sc.  3, 11. 109  ff. 


Ob  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

or  the  following  from  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  :  — 

If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms.  —  Act  III,  Sc.  1, 11.  83  £f. 

or  Hamlet's  last  words  to  Horatio  :  — 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 
To  tell  my  story — Act  V,  Sc.  2, 11.  357. 

If  any  one  fails  to  perceive  how  much  of  the  greatness  of  such 
lines  is  due  to  the  music,  let  him  alter  the  rhythm  and  observe  with 
what  fatal  effect  he  does  so.     Thus  :  — 

O  here  will  I  set  up  my  rest 
Eternal,  and  shake  off  the  yoke 
Of  inauspicious  stars  from  this 
World-wearied  flesh. 

(b)  And  yet  the  use  of  verse-music  can  be  exaggerated. 
Reference  was  made  above  to  the  danger  in  word-painting 
of  setting  more  value  on  the  phrase  than  on  the  object  be- 
hind the  phrase.  The  same  propensity  besets  the  poet's  ver- 
sification. Whenever  he  makes  his  primary  appeal  to  the 
ear  and  not  to  the  mind,  he  leaves  the  domain  of  poetry  and 
enters  the  domain  of  the  art  of  music ;  and  at  that  instant 
his  poetry  begins  to  degenerate.  Not  merely  the  absolute 
sacrifice  of  sense  to  sound,  which  is  too  obvious  an  offense 
to  call  for  remark,  but  the  mere  subordination  of  sense  to 
sound,  betrays  in  the  poet  a  confusion  of  the  two  arts  of 
poetry  and  music.  The  test  is  not  difficult.  Does  the  poet 
fasten  his  attention  chiefly  on  the  sweetness  of  his  numbers, 
—  is  the  reader's  attention  in  consequence  distracted  from 
the  thought  by  the  verse-melody,  rather  than  helped  by  it 
to  realize  the  thought  ?     In  this  case  it  is  music  rather  than 


EXPRESSION  87 

poetry  that  he  produces,  or  rather  he  is  attempting  to  blend 
into  one  the  resources  of  two  distinct  arts,  an  attempt  that 
is  never  without  fatal  results. 

Swinburne  was,  beyond  all  doubt,  betrayed  into  this  mistake  by 
his  power  of  manipulating  language  musically.  Constantly,  the 
voluptuous  music  is  more  dominant  than  the  sense,  and  seems  to 
cast  an  hypnotic  slumber  over  the  intelligence  of  the  reader  instead 
of  stimulating  it  into  activity.  Even  the  well-known  choral  odes 
in  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon  "  seem  to  suffer  from  an  exaggeration  of 
musical  effects. 

We  do  not  contend  that  the  sense  is  sacrificed  to  the  sound  in  such 
verses,  but  that  the  music  is  so  obtrusive  that  it  distracts  the  mind, 
and  the  gratification  of  the  sense  of  hearing  dulls  the  activity  of 
the  intelligence.  Quite  different  is  the  effect  of  rhythm  and 
melody  in  the  passages  quoted  above  from  Shakespeare ;  in  these 
the  music  is  not  a  thing  apart,  but  so  incorporated  with'  the  sense 
that  it  is  only  upon  reflection  and  analysis  that  we  perceive  how 
much  the  prosody  contributes  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  idea. 

From  what  has  been  said  in  the  foregoing  pages  we  may 
understand  the  supreme  importance  of  expression  in  the 
art  of  poetry.  Not  only  what  the  poet  says,  but  also  his 
mode  of  utterance,  is  the  gauge  of  the  value  of  his  poetry, 
because  it  is  nearly  always  the  measure  of  the  emotional 
sincerity  and  intensity  of  his  thought. 

But  true  as  this  is,  it  is  also  true  that  the  poet's  style  is 
important,  not  as  an  end  in  itself,  but  solely  as  a  means  to 
represent  the  living  idea  that  is  within  him,  that  is,  the  idea 
colored  with  imagination  and  emotion.  Whenever  the  style 
attracts  attention  to  itself,  whenever  language  claims  ad- 
miration for  its  own  sake  rather  than  for  what  it  represents, 
it  exceeds  its  competence,  it  turns  traitor  to  its  own  essential 
function,  and  poetry  becomes  false  art.  And  the  critic  who 
ventures  to  assert  that  it  is  unimportant  what  the  poet  says 
provided  he  says  it  well,  is  surely  throwing  open  the  door 


88  THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 

to  the  gravest  offenses  in  poetry  and  all  art,  to  meaningless 
music,  meaningless  word-painting,  and  eventually  to  mean- 
ingless symbolism. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Criticize  in  the  light  of  the  preceding  principles  the  follow- 
ing remarks :  — 

"  Le  style  c'est  rhomme." 
"  Style  is  a  thinking  out  into  language." 

"  The  most  excellent  authors  lose  most  of  their  graces  when  we 
find  them  literally  translated." 

2.  If  style  is  the  exact  image  of  what  is  in  one's  mind,  what 
justification  is  there  for  laboring  to  perfect  one's  style?  See 
Newman's  "  Lecture  on  Literature." 

3.  What  difference  is  there  between  what  is  called  the  "  mat- 
ter "  and  the  "  manner  "  of  a  written  composition  ? 

4.  Show  the  unity  and  the  development  of  the  form  in  the 
following  lyrics:  Golden  Treasury,  LXI,  CLXII,  CCXCV. 

5.  Point  out  instances  of  effective  word-painting  in  the  follow- 
ing: Golden  Treasury,  CCXLIX,  CCCIII,  CCCXVI. 


The  Four  Chief  Poetic  Tendencies 

The  general  laws  or  principles  of  Poetry  that  we  have 
thus  far  considered  often  stand  in  seeming  opposition  one  to 
another.  They  make,  as  it  were,  conflicting  claims  upon  the 
genius  of  the  poet.  Thus  the  demands  of  the  imagination 
tend  to  override  the  demands  of  the  intellect ;  verse-melody 
tends  to  exalt  itself  above  verse-meaning,  and  so  forth.  Ac- 
cording to  his  individual  temperament  the  poet  may  be  led 
in  one  direction  or  another  by  such  opposite  influences  ;  and 
it  is  helpful,  for  proper  appreciation  of  his  poetry,  to  ob- 
serve the  effect  they  produce.     The  chief  of  these  contrary 


EXPRESSION 


89 


tendencies  are :  first,  Idealism  vs.  Kealism ;  and  secondly, 
Classicism  vs.  Romanticism.^ 

1.  Idealism  vs.  Realism.  —  In  this  case  the  conflicting 
claims  are  as  follows:  (a)  The  claim  of  truth  to  nature: 
to  copy  external  nature  in  the  actual  details  of  a  given 
scene ;  in  human  nature  to  represent  literally  the  thoughts 
and  impulses  of  man  as  we  see  him  in  daily  life ;  this  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  the  illusion  of  reality. 

(b)  The  claim  of  idealization:  to  beautify  the  actual 
world  by  aid  of  the  imagination,  to  intensify  the  emotional 
impression  by  suppressing  true  but  irrelevant  details. 

There  is  no  fixed  law  to  balance  these  two  claims.  The 
instinct  of  the  individual  poet  leads  him  to  put  more  emphasis 
on  the  one  or  the  other.  If  on  the  former,  we  recognize  the 
realistic  tendency  ;  if  on  the  latter,  idealism.  Either  ten- 
dency may  run  to  manifest  excess,  resulting  in  exaggerated 
realism  or  idealism. 

The  following  diagram  indicates  the  position  of  certain 
more  or  less  typical  representatives  of  these  two  tendencies 
in  English  literature. 


Exaggerated 
Realism 

Realism 

Idealism 

Exaggerated 
Idealism 

Byron's  Satires 

Crabbe 
Wordsworth 

Milton 
Shelley 

The    Eclogues    of 
Giles  and  Phineas 
Fletcher 

2.  Classicism  vs.  Romanticism.  —  This  is  a  more  intricate 
subject  than  the  preceding.  In  general,  classicism  results 
from  the  conscious  and  deliberate  attitude  of  the  poet  in  com- 
posing, .  romanticism  from   spontaneity  and  free   emotion. 

1  For  a  complete  discussion  of  these  tendencies,  see  Neilson,  "  Essentials 
of  Poetry."  Also  the  Columbia  University  "  Lectures  on  Literature  "  on 
Classicism  and  Romanticism. 


90 


THE  NATURE  OF  POETRY 


But  this  opposition  reveals  itself  in  many  ways  and  in  every 
element  in  the  constitution  of  poetry,  and  may  perhaps  be 
best  exhibited  in  the  following  diagram.  As  in  the  fore- 
going, each  tendency  may  be  exaggerated,  whence  we  have 
what  is  known  in  criticism  as  Pseudo-Classicism  and  Ultra- 
Komanticism. 


Pseudo- 
Classicism 

Classicism 

Romanticism 

Ultra- 
komanticism 

over -restrained 

composed 

Emotion 

intense  — 

prized    for 

and  artificial 

and  self- 

highly 

its     own 

p    0     s- 

personal 

sake,  i.e. 

sessed: 

for     the 

general 

thrill    of 

and  typ- 

s e  n  s  a- 

ical 

tion 

uninspired, — 

distinct  — 

Imagination 

suggestive 

suggestive 

and   hence 

sharply 

or  haunt- 

to     the 

conventional 

defined 

i  n  g  — 

point   of 

—  p  r  0  b- 

pictur- 

vague- 

able  and 

esque  or 

ness. 

natural 

marvel- 

imagery 

' 

ous    im- 
agery 

abstract  — 

primary 

Thought 

penetrat- 

"distinct 

commonplace 

and  fun- 

ing       to 

thought 

damen- 

the  mys- 

the bane 

tal    con- 

teries  of 

of     poe- 

ceptions 

life 

try." 

rhetorical- 

clear  — 

Expression 

bold- 

soft  —  un- 

conventional 

appro- 
priate  — 
congruous 

original 

emphatic 
—  musi- 
cal. 

Darwin 

Milton 

Shelley 

Yeats 

EXPRESSION  -91 

It  should  be  noted  that  no  single  poet  (especially  no  great 
poet)  represents  any  single  tendency  purely  or  exclusively. 
The  names  indicated  above  imply  that  some  or  all  of  the 
accompanying  characteristics  dominate  the  work  without 
absolutely  excluding  contrary  qualities. 


PART  TWO 


THE  SPECIES  OF  POETRY 

The  three  great  divisions  of  poetry  are  the  lyric,  the  nar- 
rative, and  the  dramatic.  In  lyric  poetry  the  poet  utters  his 
personal  emotions  or  reflections,  giving  more  prominence  to 
these  than  to  the  situation  in  which  he  finds  himself.  In 
narrative  poetry  he  describes  an  action  or  event,  giving  more 
prominence  to  these  than  to  his  own  reflections  about  them. 
In  dramatic  poetry  he  sets  before  us  characters  speaking 
and  acting,  and  refrains  from  any  expression  in  his  own 
character.  Of  these  three  species  the  first  is  purely  subjec- 
tive to  the  poet ;  the  second  is  objective  ;  the  third  is  objec- 
tive to  the  poet,  subjective  to  the  characters.  Again,  lyric 
poetry  is  always  in  present  time,  that  is,  it  represents  what 
the  -poet  feels  as  he  writes;  narrative  poetry  deals  with  the 
past,  that  is,  with  what  Jias  occurred;  dramatic  poetry 
unites  the  past  with  the  present,  that  is,  what  has  occurred 
is  represented  as  now  occynnng. 

We  shall  consider  each  of  these  main  divisions  in  detail, 
and  afterwards  glance  at  certain  minor  forms  intermediate 
between  them. 


CHAPTER    I 
Narrative  Poetry 

Poetic  narrative  must,  of  course,  observe  all  the  essential 
principles  that  govern  the  construction  of  a  prose  narrative  ; 
it  must  possess  unity,  coherence,  and  proportion ;  it  must 
have  a  starting  point,  a  period  of  suspense,  a  climax  of 
interest  and  the  like.  These  characteristics  are  not  dis- 
tinctive of  poetry. 

The  features  in  which  poetic  narrative  differs  from  prose 
narrative  are  chiefly  these ;  that  the  poem  is  more  emotional, 
the  prose  more  matter-of-fact ;  the  latter  offers  more  minute 
details  of  a  commonplace  character,  the  former  confines  it- 
self to  broader  and  more  salient  features  ;  the  latter  is  more 
subtle  and  analytic,  the  former  more  general  and  pictur- 
esque. 

The  principal  formal  type  of  narrative  poetry  is  the 
Epic,  whose  structure  we  shall  now  examine. 

The  Epic 

The  Epic  is  a  poem  extended  in  length,  narrating  an  ac- 
tion of  power  and  interest,  centred  about  a  single  hero. 

1.  The  End  of  the  Epic.  —  The  generic  motive  of  the  epic  is 
to  excite  adiniration.  In  this  it  is  differentiated  from  tragedy, 
which  aims  to  awaken  fear  and  pity.  Its  essential  note, 
therefore,  is  triumph  over  difficulties,  and,  other  things  being 
equal,  the  intenser  the  difficulty,  and  the  more  complete 
the  victory,  the  better  is  this  purpose  attained. 

94 


NARRATIVE  POETRY  95 

2.  The  Action.  —  The  epic  is  essentially  a  poem  of  action, 
and  is  purely  objective.  The  poet,  though  he  writes  in  pro- 
pria perso7ia,  does  not  allow  his  personality  to  appear,  nor 
does  he  give  expression  to  reflections,  observations,  moraliz- 
ings  of  his  own.  His  thought  is  ever  on  the  external  object, 
never  on  his  own  heart  and  soul. 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  subjective  attitude  occurs  when  the 
poet  pauses  for  a  moment  to  invoke  the  muse  as  he  enters  upon  a 
momentous  part  of  his  story.  Yet  even  here  the  situation  itself 
rather  thau  the  poet's  own  feeling  is  kept  chiefly  prominent.  See, 
among  other  examples,  "  ^neid,"  Book  VI,  lines  264—268.  Milton, 
however,  takes  more  liberty  in  this  regard,  as  iu  the  well-known 
reference  to  his  blindness  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  book  of 
"  Paradise  Lost." 

The  action  of  the  epic  is  broader  and  freer  than  the 
action  of  the  drama.  This  means  that  it  is  longer,  more 
varied  in  character,  and  admits  incidents  or  scenes  more  or 
less  irrelevant  to  the  main  action.  But  it  means  more  than 
this.  In  dramatic  poetry  the  action  is  subordinate  to  the 
characters ;  it  originates  chiefly  from  the  activity  of  the 
characters ;  their  energies,  hopes,  fears,  create  the  action, 
and  their  suffering  is  the  climax  of  the  action.  In  the  epic 
the  movement  is  more  independent  of  the  characters.  The 
hero  is  indeed  in  the  thick  of  the  action,  but  not  identified 
with  it  as  in  the  drama.  ^ 

Lastly,  the  action  of  the  epic  is  momentous  in  import,  and 
hence  is  naturally  associated  with  the  national  or  religious 
traditions  of  a  people. 

3.  The  Unity.  —  The  epic  portrays  one  complete  action, 
its  beginning,  its  progress,  its  end.  Thus  the  action  of  the 
"-^neid'^  comprises  the  migration  of  ^neas  from  Troy  to 
Latium,  that  of  the  "  Odyssey '^  the  return  of  Odysseus 
to  Ithaca.     Further,  in  setting   forth   this  one   action  the 

1  See,  for  illustration,  uuder  Dramatic  Poetry,  p.  110. 


96  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

poet  has  one  motif,  one  conception  which  dominates  his 
poem  and  gives  color  to  the  action.  Thus  the  destructive 
wrath  of  Achilles,  in  the  "  Iliad,"  and,  in  the  "^neid," 

"  Tantae  molis  erat  Eomanam  condere  gentem." 

This  unity,  however,  as  has  been  indicated,  has  not  that 
compactness  which  dramatic  unity  requires.  The  action,  be- 
sides being  far  more  extended  in  length,  admits  greater 
freedom  of  treatment.  It  does  not  require  the  steady  ad- 
vance to  a  climax  and  the  steady  recoil  which  belong  to  the 
drama,  and  it  freely  admits  episodes,  i.e.  subsidiary  incidents 
that  are  not  essential  to  the  progress  of  the  main  action,  but 
at  the  same  time  are  not  incongruous  with  it.  They  enliven 
the  action  and  afford  variety  without  impairing  the  general 
effect. 

An  episode  is  any  incident  which  does  not  form  a  link  in  the 
chain  of  events  leading  to  the  conclusion  of  the  poem,  or,  in  other 
words,  an  incident  which  could  be  sacrificed  without  destroying 
an  essential  of  the  plot.  Such,  for  instance,  is  the  sixth  book  of 
the  "  iEneid,"  and  the  games  celebrated  in  the  fifth  book. 

4.  The  Development.  —  (a)  The  poem  often  opens  with  an 
invocation  of  the  Muse,  and  a  formal  statement  of  the 
theme.  See  the  "  Iliad,"  "  Odyssey,"  and  the  lofty  invoca- 
tion of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  "  Paradise  Lost." 

(5)  After  this  preamble,  the  narrative  proper  may  begin 
with  the  initial  steps  of  the  action  itself,  as  in  the  "  Iliad," 
or  may  begin  in  the  middle  of  the  story,  the  previous  part 
being  in  this  case  taken  up  later  in  the  poem  by  way  of  a 
description  put  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  characters.  This 
so-called  "  ordo  praeposterus  "  is  followed  in  the  "  Odyssey  " 
(Books  9  to  12)  and  in  the  "  ^neid  "  (Books  2  and  3). 

(c)  In  the  progress  of  the  action  two  essential  features 
are  to  be  noted,  a  complication  and  its  solution.    The  former 


NARRATIVE  POETRY  97 

is  that  part  of  the  action  in  which  the  chief  character  is 
involved  in  difficulties,  and  struggles  against  the  adverse 
power  of  circumstance,  or  fate,  or  personal  foes.  Minor 
complications  and  solutions  may  run  throughout  the  poem, 
but,  as  there  is  essentially  one  action,  so  there  is  one  pri- 
mary complication,  creating  various  embarrassments  for  the 
hero.  These  he  may  overcome  singly  as  the  poem  progresses, 
but  the  final  victory  is  reserved  for  the  end. 

This  complete  subdual  of  the  opposing  force  is  the  pri- 
mary solution  and  the  final  act  of  the  poem.  It  is  of  mo- 
ment that  this  victory  should  come  about  naturally,  i.e.  not 
by  the  miraculous  intervention  of  superhuman  power,  nor  by 
an  unaccountable  accident  unforeseen  and  unprovided  for  in 
the  poem,  but  by  force  of  events  calculated  from  afar,  and  by 
the  working  out  of  natural  causes  operating  in  the  narrative. 

(d)  Finally,  the  conclusion '  which  follows  the  solution 
should  be  concise.  Here  is  no  place  for  episodes,  for  pauses, 
for  description,  or  anything  that  clogs  the  movement  as  it 
hastens  to  the  end. 

The  preceding  outline  represents  what  one  may  call  the 
typical  epic.  Needless  to  say,  not  every  epic  is  constructed 
rigidly  according  to  type.  Other  poetic  qualities  may  avail 
to  compensate  in  great  measure  for  defective  construction, 
such  as  intensity,  rapidity,  vividness,  and  so  forth.  The 
above  sketch  is  a  more  or  less  conventional  ideal  toward 
which  every  epic  may  be  expected  to  approach. 

The  foregoing  precepts  of  epic  poetry  may  be  illustrated  by  the 
following  sketch  of  the  "  ^neid." 

(a)  The  action  consists  of  the  wanderings  of  ^neas  from  Troy 
to  Latium  to  found  the  Roman  nation.  This  gives  the  essential 
unity  to  the  poem ;  it  also  imparts  to  it  a  national  interest. 

(b)  In  his  journeying  the  hero  is  continually  struggling  against 
the  malign  influence  of  Juno,  who  is  bent  on  thwarting  his  design. 


98  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

This  constitutes  the  primary  complication ;  and  the  eventual  triumph 
of  uJineas,  in  the  last  book,  the  primary  solution. 

(1)  The  introduction,  consisting  of  theme  and  invocation,  is 
contained  in  the  first  twelve  lines  of  the  poem. 

(2)  The  poet  next  plunges  into  the  middle  of  the  action. 
iEneas  is  revealed  in  the  sixth  year  of  his  wanderings.  He  en- 
counters a  storm  stirred  up  by  Juno,  from  which  he  escapes  and 
is  cast  on  the  African  coast.  (This  peril  and  the  escape  represent 
one  of  the  many  minor  complications  and  solutions.     Book  1.) 

(3)  Books  2,  3,  4  are  concerned  with  the  infatuation  of  Dido 
for  iEneas,  from  which  he  eventually  extricates  himself.  (An- 
other minor  complication  and  solution.) 

In  the  course  of  his  entertainment  by  Dido,  the  hero  narrates 
the  events  of  the  six  years  preceding  the  opening  of  the  poem,  — 
his  escape  from  Troy,  his  adventures  in  Thrace,  Crete,  Epirus,  and 
Sicily.     (Ordo  prseposterus.) 

(4)  Book  5  describes  the  funeral  games  held  in  honor  of  his 
departed  sire  (an  episode),  —  and  another  minor  complication  and 
solution,  viz.,  the  firing  of  the  ships  and  the  quenching  of  the  flames 
by  a  downpour  of  rain. 

(5)  The  whole  of  Book  6  is  a  long  episode,  the  descent  of  iEneas 
into  Hades  to  visit  the  shade  of  Anchises.  During  this  episode  the 
gi-eat  national  import  of  the  poem  is  kept  in  view  by  frequent 
allusions  to  Roman  and  Italian  names  and  customs,  and  particu- 
larly by  the  vision  of-  Rome's  future  heroes,  granted  to  ^neas 
before  his  return  to  the  upper  world. 

(6)  Books  7  and  8  narrate  how  ^neas  is  disappointed  in  suing 
for  the  hand  of  Lavinia,  daughter  of  King  Latinus,  and  the  begin- 
ning of  his  war  with  his  arch-enemy  Turnus.  (This  begins  the 
final  complication.) 

(7)  Books  9  and  10  describe  ^neas's  peril  in  the  war  and  his 
partial  success.  This  continual  battling  is  a  preparation  for  the 
final  solution  of  the  poem.     (Final  complication — continued.) 

(8)  Book  11  is  taken  up  with  the  burial  of  Pallas  (an  episode)  ; 
the  attack  on  Turnus  in  his  stronghold.  (Final  complication  — 
continued.) 

.    (9)  In  Book  12  Juno  succumbs  to  the  power  of  destiny,  and 


NARRATIVE  POETRY  99 

withdraws  her  opposition  to  ^neas,  —  Turnus  is  slain  at  the  hand 
of  JEueas,  and  the  hero's  triumph  is  complete.  This  is  the  solution 
of  the  fable. 

(10)  A  conclusion  proper  to  the  poem  is  wanting.  It  ends 
abruptly  with  the  death  of  Turnus.  We  should  expect  some 
hundred  lines  or  more,  celebrating  the  victory  of  ^neas,  and  bring- 
ing him  into  the  possession  of  what  he  has  toiled  and  fought  for. 

Here,  then,  we  find  a  model  of  the  epic  in  unity  and  con- 
struction, with  splendid  variety  both  in  treatment  and  in  incident, 
especially  in  the  first  six  books.  Besides  these  qualities  we  find 
others  which,  even  more  than  the  constructive  merits  of  the  poem, 
give  it  so  high  a  place  in  literature.     These  are  :  — 

(1)  A  perfect  mastery  of  versification,  which  is  made  to  rise  and 
fall  and  throb  with  the  varying  emotions  of  the  poem. 

(2)  A  sustained  dignity  of  tone  that  is  hardly  short  of  mar- 
velous in  so  extended  a  poem. 

(3)  Felicity  of  literary  expression  in  choice  of  word  and  phrase. 

(4)  A  quiet  pathos  that  is  peculiar  to  the  "iEneid  "  and  is  char- 
acteristic of  Vergil's  outlook  upon  human  life. 

The  poem  fails  conspicuously  in  character  portrayal.  JEneas 
is  not  a  living  being,  but  an  abstraction.  He  is  supposed  to  be 
without  fault  or  imperfection,  and  is  so  hedged  in  by  divine  pro- 
tection that  he  entirely  fails  to  interest  us  in  his  personality.^ 

6.  The  Primitive  Epic.  —  It  is  customary  to  divide  epic 
poems  into  primitive  epics  and  epics  of  art.  It  is  a  divi- 
sion based  on  the  origin  of  the  poem,  but  this  difference  of 
origin  results  in  other  more  important  differences  of  style 
and  manner. 

The  primitive   epic  is  represented   by  the   "Iliad,"  the 

"  Odyssey,"  "  Beowulf,"  and  the  early  heroic  poems  of  various 

nations.     These  epics  originate,  not  from  an  individual  poet, 

but  from  the  heart  of  the  whole  nation  in  its  infancy.     We 

find  in  the  first  place  short  minstrel  lays  commemorating  the 

legendary  exploits  of  the  nation's  hero.     These  lays  passing 

1  See,  however,  F.  W.  Myers'  "  Essay  on  Vergil  "  for  an  elaborate  justifi- 
cation of  the  character  of  ^neas. 


100  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

from  mouth  to  mouth  are  gradually  sifted,  selected,  embel- 
lished to  suit  the  popular  imagination,  and  thus  grow  to 
be  a  concrete  expression  of  the  nation's  ideals.  Afterwards 
there  comes  the  individual  poet  who  gathers  and  refashions 
them  in  the  form  of  a  continuous  narrative ;  and  thus 
the  scattered  ballads  become  an  epic  poem.  However,  these 
individual  poets  must  not  be  supposed  to  use  the  forms  and 
canons  of  conscious  art  in  molding  the  ancient  material  into  an 
epic,  but  rather  poets  endowed  with  enough  breadth  of  vision 
to  conceive  a  long  poem,  and  a  sufficient  power  of  expression 
to  give  it  just  utterance,  yet  living  near  enough  to  the  ballad 
era  to  believe  in  the  legend  and  to  be  inspired  by  the  ideal  it 
portrays,  and  so  to  treat  the  subject  with  naive  sincerity. 

The  poetic  quality  we  look  for  in  the  primitive  epic  is 
spontaneity,  simplicity,  sincerity ;  the  defect  will  be  want  of 
artistic  form  and  imperfect  power  of  expression.  "  The  form 
(of  these  epics)  is  rudimentary,  awkward,  sometimes  even 
offensive ;  the  characters  are  not  well  conceived  and  ana- 
lyzed ;  the  action  is  simplified  to  excess,  and  so  inadequately 
treated ;  the  episodes  and  changes  of  fortune  are  poorly 
prepared  and  often  left  unaccounted  for,  etc."  ^  However, 
in  the  judgment  of  the  world,  two  epics  have  escaped  these 
defects  of  form  and  achieved  the  very  summit  of  poetic  ex- 
cellence, the  "Iliad"  and  the  "Odyssey." 

6.  The  Epic  of  Art  is  the  conscious  art  production  of  an 
individual  poet,  writing  according  to  recognized  canons  and 
modeling  his  work  for  the  most  part  along  the  lines  of 
the  Homeric  epics.  Consequently  in  this  style  we  do  not 
look  for  the  simplicity  of  a  primitive  civilization,  but 
a  studied  dignity  of  style  and  elaboration  of  structural 
features.  Representative  epics  of  art  are  the  "^neid," 
the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  "  Paradise  Lost,"  "  Orlando  Furioso," 
"  Jerusalem  Delivered." 

1  J.  Verest,  S.J.,  "  Manuel  de  Litterature,"  p.  379. 


NARRATIVE  POEtBlt^^  '  >'   '>''''''  '  lOl 

Other  Narrative  Forms 

Besides  the  epic  we  find  in  literature  a  host  of  narrative 
poems  varying  in  length  from  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Aurora 
Leigh  "  to  Tennyson's  "  Captain." 

The  longer  poems  are  distinguished  from  the  epic  some- 
times by  the  fact  that  the  action  has  not  the  large  religious 
or  national  significance  of  the  epic,  as  in  Tennyson's  "  Prin- 
cess " ;  sometimes  because  it  does  not  aim  at  the  strict 
unity  of  design  possessed  by  the  epic ;  sometimes  by  the  fact 
that  description  obscures  the  narrative,  or  purely  fanciful 
creations  of  the  imagination  (as  dragons,  enchanted  castles, 
and  the  like)  detract  from  the  reality  and  seriousness  of  the 
poem.  The  two  latter  are  distinctive  qualities  of  the 
romance,  as  Spenser's  "  Faery  Queen "  and  the  Arthurian 
legends. 

The  shorter  narratives  may  be  classed  as  follows :  — 

(1)  Episodes,  —  brief  narratives  of  actual  facts  or  what 
are  told  as  facts. 

(2)  Legends, — fiction  with  an  admixture  of  fact  or  founded 
on  fact,  and  generally  referring  to  primitive  times. 

(3)  Tales,  —  or  narratives  of  a  purely  fictitious  character. 

(4)  Fables, — fiction  in  which  the  animal  creation  or  in- 
animate objects  are  represented  as  endowed  with  human 
character,  and  generally  serving  to  point  some  moral  truth. 

But  a  more  significant  division  of  narrative  poetry  is 
based  upon  the  attitude  of  the  poet  towards  his  story ;  thus 
we  have :  — 

(1)  The  purely  objective  narrative,  in  which  the  poet, 
losing  sight  of  himself,  keeps  his  eye  singly  upon  the  fact 
that  he  recounts.  Such,  for  instance,  are  Scott's  narrative 
poems,  Keats's  "  Hyperion." 

(2)  Narratives  in  which  the  subjective  element  is  promi- 
nent, and  the  poet's  personal  reflections  are  continually  put 


102  THE  SPiECIES   OF  POETRY 

forward  by  way  of  criticism  or  corainentary  on  what  he 
narrates.  Such  are  Byron's  "  Childe  Harold,"  Wordsworth's 
"Excursion,"  Shelley's  "Alastor." 

(3)  Dramatic  narrative,  which  puts  the  story  on  the  lips 
of  a  third  person  and  sets  it  forth  professedly  from  his 
point  of  view :  examples  are  Browning's  "  Ring  and  the 
Book,"  and  Chaucer's  "  Canterbury  Tales." 

EXERCISES 

1.  Draw  up  a  sketch  of  the  Odyssey  after  the  style  of  the 
sketch  of  the  ^neid  given  above,  showing  unity,  complications, 
episodes,  etc. 

2.  Outline  a  similar  epic  of  your  own  invention,  taking  for 
the  hero  Columbus,  Washington,  Wellington,  Richard  Cceur  de 
Lion. 

3.  Write  a  brief  essay  discussing  the  imaginative  and  emotional 
elements  in  any  of  Tennyson's  narrative  poems,  and  indicate  how 
the  treatment  would  differ  if  they  were  prose. 


CHAPTER  II       . 
Dramatic  Poetry 

It  is  the  essential  feature  of  dramatic  poetry  that  the  poet 
speaks  not  in  his  own  character,  but  represents  another  as 
speaking  before  us.  So  considered,  it  includes  not  only 
tragedy,  comedy,  and  allied  species  of  the  drama  proper,  but 
also  dramatic  monologues,  dialogues,  and  so-called  dramatic 
lyrics, — pieces  never  intended  for  scenic  representation  at  all. 

The  drama  proper  is  a  poem  intended  for  representation 
on  the  stage.  It  must  be  made  up  of  an  action,  external 
and  visible,  that  is,  contain  not  merely  the  discussion  of  a 
problem,  or  the  description  of  an  emotional  situation,  or 
the  evolution  of  a  character.  It  must  represent  something 
done,  the  passage  of  the  soul  from  one  state  to  another 
under  the  influence  of  some  external  and  visible  condition. 

The  drama  possesses  a  power  over  the  emotions  peculiarly 
its  own.  This  arises  from  the  fact  that  it  appeals  not 
merely  to  the  mind  and  imagination,  as  the  other  forms  of 
poetry,  but  to  the  bodily  eye  :  and  for  its  adequate  presenta- 
tion it  calls  on  the  arts  of  elocution,  of  scenic  painting  and 
decoration,  and  often  of  music.  Furthermore,  it  possesses 
greater  compactness  and  concentration  than  the  epic,  and 
hence  leaves  a  more  intense  impression,^  while  the  epic  has 
the  advantage  of  greater  breadth  and  freedom  of  treatment 
and  exhibits  a  wider  view  of  life. 

We  shall  now  consider  the  structure  of  the  chief  forms  of 
the  drama  proper,  viz.,  tragedy  and  comedy. 

1  See  Aristotle,  "  Poetics,"  chap.  XXVI. 
103 


104  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

Tragedy 

Tragedy  may  be  defined  as  the  representation  of  a  great 
action  involving  a  fatal  issue.  But  this  definition  needs  to 
be  developed  by  a  consideration  of  the  end  of  tragedy,  also  of 
the  dramatis  personse,  the  fable,  and  the  parts  of  the  action 
itself. 

1.  The  End  of  Tragedy.  —  The  distinctive  end  of  tragedy, 
we  are  told  by  Aristotle,  is  to  excite  (1)  pity  and  (2)  fear, 
and  in  so  doing  to  effect  (3)  the  purgation  of  these  emotions 
in  the  soul.  An  action  is  tragic,  therefore,  which  achieves 
this  threefold  end. 

(1)  The  pity  that  tragedy  arouses  is  directed  towards  the 
persons  of  the  drama,  as  we  behold  them  passing  through 
the  struggle  to  the  disaster  that  awaits  them  at  the  end. 
This  is  apparent. 

(2)  The  fear,  however,  is  for  ourselves,  lest  in  the  uncer- 
tain issues  of  human  life  some  such  evil  overtake  us.  Con- 
sequently the  fear  that  tragedy  should  create  is  not  that 
alarm  for  the  characters  as  we  see  them  approaching  their 
doom,  which  is  really  only  a  phase  of  the  pity  just  alluded 
to.  Rather,  it  is  directed  towards  our  own  lives.  It  is  not 
indeed  the  fear  lest  we  should  find  ourselves  involved  in 
precisely  the  same  circumstances  and  the  same  disaster  as 
the  tragic  hero,  which  often  is  manifestly  inconceivable, 
but  rather  a  vague  and  remote  foreboding  of  evil  hover- 
ing over  our  own  lives.  It  is  a  sense  of  awe  at  the 
eventualities  of  that  human  life  in  which  we  are  playing 
our  part,  and  which  is  symbolized  by  the  tragedy  we  are 
witnessing. 

A  tragic  action,  therefore,  must  be  one  that  touches  this 
double  note  of  emotion  in  the  soul ;  not  pity  alone,  nor  fear 
alone,  if  it  is  to  be  ideally  tragic,  but  both  pity  and  fear. 
Pity  without  fear  becomes  simple  pathos,  a  mere  appeal  to  the 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  105 

tender  emotions.  A  purely  pathetic  action  is  not  tragic  but 
melodramatic.  A  melodrama  lacks  the  greatness  and  power 
which  we  feel  in  "  King  Lear  "  or  "  (Edipus  Ty rannus  "  ;  what 
is  wanting  is  the  element  of  fear  or  awe,  that  apprehension 
of  the  evils  of  human  life  in  general,  which  imparts  a  tone  of 
solemnity  to  true  tragedy.  On  the  other  hand,  fear  alone 
without  pity,  if  it  were  possible  to  conceive  a  drama  that 
left  this  effect  upon  the  soul,  would  be  too  self-centred 
and  unsympathetic  an  emotion  for  legitimate  poetry  of 
any  kind. 

(3)  But  besides  inspiring  fear  and  pity,  we  are  told  that 
tragic  action  must  effect  the  "purgation"  of  these  two 
passions  in  the  soul.  Of  the  many  interpretations  of  this 
vexed  phrase  of  Aristotle,  suflSce  it  to  say  :  ^  — 

(a)  That  the  purgation  or  Tcatharsis  spoken  of  does  not 
seem  to  be  a  purely  moral  effect ;  in  other  words,  when  we 
speak  of  purging  fear  and  pity  in  the  soul,  we  do  not  mean 
that  these  passions  are  afforded  a  worthy  object  on  which 
to  exert  themselves. 

(6)  We  do  not  mean  by  the  purgation  spoken  of  that 
tragedy  gives  an  outlet  for  these  emotions,  otherwise  pent 
up  within  us  and  suffocated  in  the  soul. 

(c)  But  rather  we  mean  that  in  tragedy  fear  and  pity  are 
relieved  of  that  painful,  tormenting,  personal  element  which 
accompanies  them  in  the  experience  of  actual  life.  The 
pity  felt  in  the  actual  presence  of  real,  not  imaginary,  suffer- 
ings, or  the  fear  felt  at  the  actual  approach  of  a  disaster  to 
ourselves,  are  not  poetic  emotions  at  all,  because  not  relieved 
of  the  pain  and  horror  that  such  evils  inspire.  (See  page 
21.)  In  tragedy,  because  it  is  kept  in  the  remoter  regions 
of  the  imagination,  this  element  is  eliminated,  and  hence 
the  passions  are  purged  of  their  unpoetic  quality.  Hence 
tragic  action  should  banish  from  the  stage  and  relegate  behind 
1  See  Butcher's  Aristotle,  p.  239  and  ff. 


106  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

the  scenes  such  horrors  as  afflict  and  give  pain  to  the  soul 
when  seen.  The  deliberate  murder  of  the  sleeping  Duncan, 
if  done  before  our  eyes,  would  shock  the  feelings ;  the  pity 
we  feel  would  be  unpurged  of  pain.  The  Greek  writers  of 
tragedy  showed  more  delicacy  of  feeling  in  this  regard  than 
our  own;  but  even  the  tearing  out  of  Gloucester's  eyes, 
though  done  on  the  stage,  should,  one  would  think,  be  sug- 
gested rather  than  exhibited  in  all  its  gross  reality. 

It  may  be  urged  that  fear  and  pity  are  emotions  proper  to  other 
species  of  poetry,  as  for  instance  to  the  epic,  and  hence  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  distinctive  of  tragedy.  But  these  emotions 
serve  to  differentiate  tragedy  from  other  dramatic  forms,  not 
from  epic,  which  is  sufficiently  distinguished  by  the  fact  that  it  is 
a  narrative,  not  the  presentation  of  an  action.  And  after  all, 
though  fear  and  pity  may  well  have  their  place  in  an  epic  action, 
yet  it  is  not  these  emotions,  but  rather  admiration  for  the  struggles 
and  the  successes  or  failures  of  the  hero,  which  will  be  found  to 
be  the  particular  effect  aimed  at  in  the  epic. 

2.  The  Dramatis  Personae.  —  The  primary  character,  or 
protagonist,  in  a  tragic  action  has  been  sagaciously  de- 
scribed by  Aristotle.  He  is  not  to  be  vicious,  nor  yet  pre- 
eminently perfect,  but  rather  one  who  will  enlist  sympathy 
by  his  uprightness,  and  yet  involve  himself  in  misfortune 
by  reason  of  some  weakness  or  frailty.^ 

This  doctrine  is  based  on  the  end  of  tragedy,  to  excite 
fear  and  pity.  The  spectacle  of  an  outlaw  involved  in  mis- 
fortune by  his  crimes  is  not  calculated  to  awaken  pity,  which 
is  inspired  by  unmerited  misfortune ;  nor  yet  to  inspire  the 
fear  described  above,  which  is  to  be  produced  in  us  by  the 
calamity  of  a  man  like  ourselves.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
fall  of  an  entirely  blameless  character  is  calculated  to  offend 
our  sense  of  poetic  justice  and  to  make  indignation  for  the 
adversary  prevail  over  pity  for  the  sufferer ;  it  further  di- 
iSee  "  Poetics,"  chap.  XIII. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  107 

minishes  the  tragic  effect  because  the  primary  character  has 
thus  no  moral  share  in  causing  his  own  misfortunes.^ 

The  history  of  the  Christian  martyrs  and  similar  subjects 
are  for  this  reason  unsuitable  to  tragedy,  because  death  in 
such  circumstances  is  not  a  calamity,  but  a  triumph;  it  is 
the  upward  struggle  of  a  soul,  superior  to  death  and  mis- 
fortune; it  is  a  victory,  not  a  defeat;  and  the  prevailing 
emotion  is  not  fear,  not  pity,  but  admiration  for  the  sufferer. 
Hence  this  is  rather  an  epic  than  a  tragic  subject. 

The  best  tragic  characters  of  ancient  and  modern  times  illustrate 
this  precept,  notably  ffidipus  and  King  Lear.  Also  the  character 
of  Antigone,  in  whom  for  all  her  beauty  and  bravery  we  discover 
a  certain  hardness,  a  certain  want  of  sweetness  and  tact  that  goes 
no  small  way  to  precipitate,  if  not  to  provoke,  the  hostility  of  Creon. 
It  is  observable  also  in  Macbeth,  in  whom  we  witness  the  struggle 
and  final  defeat  of  climbing  ambition  in  a  soul  otherwise  brave, 
noble,  and  strong.^ 

The  success  of  the  drama  depends  to  a  very  large  extent 
upon  the  poet's  portrayal  of  his  characters.     This  implies  — 

(1)  That  the  characters  be  probable,  that  they  speak  in  the 
language  and  with  the  sentiments  suitable  to  their  condition, 
age,  habits,  and  the  like,  though  the  expression  must  be 
idealized  above  the  commonplace. 

(2)  That  they  be  consistent,  maintaining  the  same  traits 
from  beginning  to  end. 

(3)  Most  of  all,  that  they  be  living  realities,  not  abstrac- 
tions, not  types  of  heroes  or  villains.  The  writer  must 
possess  that  superior  gift,  described  in  a  preceding  chapter, 
of  suggesting  briefly,  yet  distinctly,  an  individual  character. 
As  in  real  life,  so  in  the  drama,  what  is  individual  and  per- 
sonal stimulates  our  interest,  not  what  is  general  or  typical. 

1  See  p.  109. 

2  With  regard  to  the  difficulty  presented  by  Shakespeare's  "Richard 
III,"  see  Butcher,  Chap.  VIII. 


108  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

(4)  Lastly,  the  personages  must  be  selected  with  a  view 
to  character  contrast.  The  adversary  should  possess  traits 
that  will  throw  into  relief  the  traits  of  the  primary  person, 
and  so  also  of  the  other  characters  that  are  brought  into 
juxtaposition  in  the  play. 

These  principles  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  discussed 
and  illustrated  in  an  earlier  chapter.^  The  rule  of  character 
contrast  should  be  particularly  noted  here.  Upon  it  the  effec- 
tiveness of  the  dramatic  production  depends  to  a  great  extent. 
If  the  characters  are  all,  as  it  were,  cast  in  the  same  mould, 
the  distinctness  of  the  portrayal  is  greatly  dimmed,  and  their 
reaction  on  one  another  is  lessened. 

Critics  have  sometimes  complained  that  Goneril  and  Regan  in 
"  King  Lear"  are  too  nearly  alike  to  be  clearly  distinguishable  one 
from  another ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  weak-spirited,  garrulous, 
and  sometimes  shallow  Gloucester  throws  into  relief  the  gigantic, 
unsubdued,  and  intense  Lear ;  so  too  the  frank  and  credulous  Edgar 
offsets  the  shrewd,  cynical  Edmund ;  Kent  and  Cordelia  stand  in 
opposition  to  the  two  treacherous  daughters,  and  the  like.  In 
"(Edipus  Tyrannus,"  Creon  is  cool  and  calculating,  and  so  serves 
as  a  contrast  to  the  impetuous  side  of  the  character  of  G^dipus, 
and  the  evasive  Jocasta  brings  out  the  undaunted  straightforward- 
ness of  the  hero. 

3.  The  Tragic  Fable.  —  (1)  Unity.  —  The  tragic  fable  muct 
possess  strict  unity.  It  must  not  be  dovetailed  into  a  sec- 
ond action ;  it  must  not  be  left  unfinished  at  the  end.  That 
specific  action  which  began  the  fable  must  also  continue 
throughout  and  be  brought  to  its  conclusion  at  the  end  of 
the  play. 

The  action,  however,  may  be  complex.  Thus  in  many 
of  Shakespeare's  plays,  two  distinct  plots  are  set  on  foot, 
run  side  by  side  through  two  or  three  acts,  and  are  welded 
together  into  one  conclusion.^    This  does  not  mar  the  essential 

1  See  pp.  46  ff.  2  gee  the  analysis  of  "  King  Lear  "  given  below. 


DBAMATIC  POETRY  109 

unity  of  the  plot,  as  would  the  introduction  of  a  second 
action,  to  eke  out  the  play  after  the  first  has  come  to 
its  natural  end. 

Moreover,  this  unity  should  result  from  the  exposition  of 
a  single  idea  or  view  of  life,  which  is  concreted  in  the  fable, 
as  ambition  leading  to  moral  ruin,  in  Macbeth. 

Unity  is  a  requirement  common  to  the  epic  and  to  tragedy  ; 
but  a  higher  degree  of  unity  is  required  in  the  drama.  It 
must  be  more  compact.  Epic  unity  is  the  unity  of  a  pano- 
rama; tragic  unity  that  of  an  edifice.  This  simple  unity 
is  demanded  by  the  fact  that  the  tragedy  is  shorter  in 
compass  than  the  epic,  and  the  attention  of  the  audience 
is  more  closely  riveted  upon  the  action.  We  ill  brook 
interruption  and  digression,  being  impatient  to  pursue 
the  fortunes  of  the  hero  to  their  end.  Hence  episodes 
have  no  place  here,  and  nothing  should  be  admitted  that 
might  tend  to  divert  attention  from  the  thread  of  the 
action,  nothing  that  does  not  contribute  directly  to  the 
development  of  Ihe  story.  Observe,  for  instance,  how  such 
a  digression  from  the  action  as  the  descent  of  ^neas  into 
Hades  would  force  its  irrelevancy  upon  us  if  it  occurred  in 
a  drama. 

(2)  Its  Motive  Force.  —  The  action  of  tragedy  as  it  advances 
step  by  step  in  its  development  should  be  impelled  by 
the  spiritual  activities  of  the  chief  characters,  rather  than 
by  external  agencies.  The  passions,  desires,  fears,  hopes, 
aspirations,  hates  of  the  characters  should  be  the  con- 
spicuous forces  that  cause  whatever  comes  to  pass,  —  rather 
than  the  forces  of  nature,  or  accidental  events,  or  the 
activity  of  such  personages  as  lie  outside  the  main  action. 

This  does  not  cotitravene  the  precept  given  above  concern- 
ing dramatic  action  in  general,  which  prescribes  that  it 
should  be  external  and  visible,  and  not  be  confined  to  the 
interior  workings  of  the  heart  and  soul.     The  action  itself, 


110  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

what  is  done,  must  be  external  and  visible,  and  so  fit  foi 
scenic  presentation,  but  the  force  that  creates  and  controls 
the  struggle  against  these  external  circumstances  is  made 
up  of  forces  of  the  soul,  the  great  human  elemental 
passions.  Tragedy  is  internal  in  its  forces,  external  in  its 
activities. 

Thus  it  was  perfectly  appropriate  to  the  epic  poem  that  a  storm 
at  sea  should  control  the  destinies  of  ^neas  and  fling  him  upon 
the  coast  of  Africa ;  but  the  incident,  however  calamitous,  is  not 
tragic,  because  purely  external.  On  the  other  hand,  his  entangle- 
ment with  Dido,  and  his  struggle  to  escape,  are  tragic  because 
they  proceed  from  the  passions  of  the  actors ;  it  is  essentially  a 
soul  struggle.  So  too,  Racine,  in  "  Athalie,"  brings  about  the  death 
of  the  queen  by  a  coup  d'etat  contrived  quite  apart  from  the  activ- 
ities of  Athalie,  and  the  effect  is  rather  epic  than  dramatic  in 
quality.  In  "Julius  Caesar,"  the  interest  of  a  similar  coup  d'etat, 
the  assassination,  is  centred  about  the  tragic  struggle  in  the  soul  of 
Brutus  between  his  friendship  for  Caesar  and  his  allegiance  to  the 
Roman  republic. ^  Milton's  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  is  ineffective  as 
a  drama  from  another  defect.  It  is  an  exhibition  of  the  struggle  of 
the  soul,  but  this  is  not  externalized  sufficiently.    There  is  no  action. 

(3)  Its  Truth.  —  What  has  been  said  of  truth  in  general 
as  applied  to  poetry  bears  special  reference  to  tragedy. 
And  the  canon  of  truth,  like  that  of  unity,  is  more  exacting 
here  than  in  the  epic.  For  since  in  the  epic  an  incident  is 
merely  described,  it  may  be  possible  to  disguise  an  improb- 
able situation  either  by  the  heat  of  the  emotion  or  by  draw- 
ing away  attention  from  the  particulars  which  give  rise  to 
the  improbability.  In  dramatic  poetry,  when  the  action  is 
not  described,  but  set  before  the  eyes  on  the  stage,  these  im- 
probable features  cannot  be  hidden,  and  at  once  destroy  the 
illusion  of  reality. 

On  the  other  hand,  an  improbability  that  occurs  outside 

1  See  Woodbridge,  "  The  Drama :  its  Law  and  its  Techuique,"  p.  25. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  111 

the  action  of  the  play  itself,  for  instance,  an  improbability 
presupposed  in  the  antecedents  to  the  plot,  is  condoned  by 
Aristotle.  "  It  is  as  if  a  sculptor  neglected  to  remove  some 
roughness  of  support  or  environment  which,  he  felt,  would 
not  come  into  account  against  the  effect  of  a  highly  finished 
group."  Such  a  case  is  the  curious  failure  of  (Edipus  to 
acquaint  himself  with  the  story  of  Laius  when  he  succeeded 
the  latter  on  the  throne  of  Thebes.^ 

An  instance  of  this  kind  of  improbability  was  cited  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  poetic  truth.2  Another  instance  is  the  scene  on  the 
Scsean  gates  in  the  third  book  of  the  "  Iliad."  The  impossibility 
of  seeing  and  recognizing  the  Grecian  warriors  from  the  Trojan 
tower  would  be  instantly  felt  if  represented  on  the  stage. 

(4)  Its  Coherence.  —  Both  unity  and  probability  are  sub- 
served by  another  requisite  of  the  action.  Each  step  in  the 
story  should  be  connected  by  a  link  of  causality  with  what 
follows,  that  is,  each  successive  incident  should  be  a  natural 
result  of  w^hat  preceded.  Things  should  not  happen  by 
chance  and  rarely  by  force  of  circumstances  lying  outside 
the  play.  By  this  means  the  action  is  kept  constantly  in 
motion  ;  we  are  always  advancing  from  the  starting  point 
to  the  finale. 

See  in  illustration  the  analysis  of  the  plays  given  at  the 
end  of  this  chapter. 

(5)  Pauses  in  the  Fable.  —  Yet  there  are  certain  places 
where  this  movement  of  the  actiop  must  halt  or  be  retarded. 
Such  are  momentous  points,  where  an  emotional  effect  must 
be  emphasized,  and  consequently  a  delay  is  necessary  to 
create  the  desired  impression.  These  pauses  may  be  pro- 
duced by  greater  detail  in  the  representation,  by  monologue 
and  debate,  by  description,  and  other  similar  devices.' 

1  Jebb,  Introduction  to  "(Edipiis  Tyrannus,"  No.  10. 

2  See  p.  66.  »  See  analyses  given  below. 


112  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

4.  The  Structure  of  Tragedy.  —  The  structure  of  the  trag- 
edy may  be  conveniently  represented  by  the  accompanying 
diagram :  — 


Let  the  line  A  represent  the  introduction,  called  also  the 
prologoSf  or  protasis.  Let  B  and  C  represent  the  action 
proper,  consisting  of  its  two  parts  ;  B,  the  rise,  also  called 
the  complication,  and  (7,  the  fall,  also  called  the  revolution 
or  reversal.     D  represents  the  conclusion. 

Besides  these  lines  we  find  three  important  points  in  the 
diagram  :  a,  the  starting  point ;  h,  the  turning  point,  or  peri- 
peteia; c,  the  terminal  point,  or  crisis. 

We  shall  now  consider  these  details  in  turn. 

(1)  The  Introduction.  —  This  does  not  begin  the  action  or 
movement  of  the  play,  properly  so  called.  Its  purpose  is 
to  put  the  spectator  in  possession  of  the  necessary  prelim- 
inaries. These  are  the  situation  out  of  which  the  action 
arises,  the  exciting  force  which  starts  the  struggle,  and  the 
chief  personages  with  an  adumbration  of  their  traits  of 
character. 

The  difficulty  that  confronts  the  writer  in  composing  the 
introduction  is  to  bring  forward  these  preliminaries  concisely, 
yet  clearly ;  not,  however,  in  the  form  of  a  monologue  or 
confidential  address  to  the  spectators,  but  by  a  natural 
dialogue  between  the  actors,  without  any  appearance  of 
exposition. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  113 

In  the  introduction  or  prologos  of  "  Hecuba,"  which  extends  to 
the  entrance  of  the  chorus,  the  long  monologue  of  Polydorus  is 
a  defect,  delaying  the  action   and   marring  the  dramatic  effect. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  situation  with  its  two  parts  is  given  in 
the  narrative  of  Polydorus,  which  is  skilfully  concise ;  we  are  told 
of  the  fate  of  Polydorus,  of  the  impending  fate  of  Polyxena; 
the  exciting  force  may  be  seen  in  the  omens  and  the  visions  that 
haunt  the  mind  of  Hecuba  and  set  in  motion  the  grief,  not  un- 
tinctured  with  venom,  that  creates  the  struggle  in  the  play.  Of  the 
characters,  Hecuba  only  is  introduced. 

(2)  The  Rise  of  the  Action.  —  This  brings  the  chief  per- 
sonage through  a  series  of  incidents  leading  to  a  point 
where  a  change  in  his  fortune  begins  to  manifest  itself. 
The  word.  "  rise,"  technically  used  to  designate  this  portion 
of  the  action,  is  misleading.  It  does  not  aptly  characterize 
what  it  is  meant  to  convey.  In  "  Macbeth,"  the  hero  does  in 
a  sense  "rise";  he  overcomes  his  scruples,  he  murders 
Duncan,  he  puts  out  of  the  way  his  rival,  Banquo  ;  his  efforts 
are  crowned  with  success.  In  "King  Lear,"  on  the  other 
hand,  the  first  half  of  the  action  might  more  fittingly  be  de- 
scribed as  a  "  fall."  The  old  king  is  spurned  by  Goneril,  is 
cast  out  of  doors  by  both  daughters,  battles  with  the  elements 
and  loses  his  wits  before  the  turn  in  the  tide  of  his  struggle. 
But  in  either  case  there  comes  a  point  near  the  middle  of 
the  play  where  such  a  change  occurs,  and  the  first  half  of 
the  action  thus  stands  in  contrast  with  the  second.  This 
first  half  is  technically  the  "me"  of  the  action.  In  the 
succession  of  incidents  that  compose  it  there  must  be  a 
well-marked  climax.  The  story  does  not  proceed  along 
a  level,  but,  as  indicated  by  the  direction  of  the  line  in  the 
diagram,  grows  in  emotional  impressiveness  and  brings 
the  hero  steadily  nearer  to  the  ultimate  point  of  his 
success  or  downfall. 

(3)  The  Reversal  of  the  Action.  —  This  half  of  the  action 


114  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

conducts  us  through  a  series  of  events  standing  in  contrast 
with  the  preceding,  —  representing  a  change  in  the  hero's 
fortunes.  If  in  the  rise  of  the  action  the  hero  trod  the 
road  of  success,  now  he  treads  the  road  of  failure  ;  if  in 
the  rise  he  met  with  calamity,  in  the  reversal  he  recovers 
from  his  misfortunes. 

Experience  proves  that  this  is  the  most  difficult  part  of 
the  play  to  handle  with  success.  The  difficulty  is  to  in- 
vent incidents  that  will  keep  up  the  movement  in  a  steady 
direction  towards  the  end,  and  sustain  the  interest  aroused 
in  the  spectators  by  the  first  half  of  the  action;  and  the 
danger  is  that  the  hero  be  lost  sight  of  by  the  poet  in 
developing  the  antagonistic  forces. 

A  weakness  in  the  structure  of  the  reversal  is  particularly 
noticeable  in  "  King  Lear  "  ;  the  old  king  is  almost  relegated  to  the 
background  as  the  plot  thickens  about  Edmund  and  the  sisters. 

(4)  TJie  Conclusion.  —  The  action  proper  is  now  at  an  end. 
The  catastrophe  has  transpired.  This  part  of  the  tragedy 
presents  the  consequences  that  follow  the  action  —  the 
rounding  off  of  the  play  necessary  to  its  end.  Like  the 
conclusion  of  the  epic,  it  must  be  short  and  decisive.^ 

(5)  Three  Points  in  the  Action.  —  In  addition  to  these 
four  parts  of  the  tragedy  there  are,  as  has  been  noted,  three 
points  of  such  importance  as  to  require  special  attention. 
The  first  of  these  is  the  "starting  point,"  which  follows 
the  introduction.  The  situation  has  been  laid  down,  the 
chief  characters  have  been  introduced,  the  forces  of  the 
drama  have  been  put  in  line,  and  now  the  struggle,  what- 
ever its  nature^  begins.  This  is  the  starting  point,  and 
it  must  be  well  marked,  unmistakable  in  import,  with- 
out any  vagueness  or  uncertainty  as  to  the  direction  in 
which  the  hero  begins  to  move. 

1  For  illustrations  of  all  these  points,  see  the  analyses  given  at  the  end 
of  this  chapter. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  115 

Thus  the  starting  point  in  the  "CEdipus  Tyrannus"  is  the  proc- 
lamation by  which  the  king  starts  on  his  quest  for  the  murderer. 
It  is  a  strong,  earnest,  confident  denunciation  of  the  crime. 

The  second  is  the  "  turning  point "  between  the  two 
halves  of  the  action  proper,  also  called  the  peripeteia.  The 
exact  occurrence  at  which  this  change  becomes  discernible 
must  from  the  nature  of  the  case  be  insignificant,  as  the 
hero  cannot  plunge  abruptly  from  success  to  failure,  or  the 
reverse.  Yet  it  is  at  the  same  time  important  that  the 
change  be  promptly  and  clearly  recorded  in  some  memor- 
able and  impressive  scene,  one  that  shows  vividly  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  change. 

The  turning  point  in  the  career  of  Macbeth  is  the  escape  of 
Fleance  from  the  sword  of  the  assassins,  —  Macbeth's  first  failure. 
This  is  made  known  quietly  in  the  banquet  scene,  and  the  hero's 
turn  from  triumph  to  discomfiture  is  instantly  recorded  in  the 
vision  of  Banquo  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  feast. 

The  third  point  is  the  crisis,  where  the  action  proper 
terminates,  the  final  issue  of  the  long  struggle,  the  catas- 
trophe that  overtakes  those  involved  in  it.  This  should 
be  the  emotional  climax  of  the  play,  and  hence  must  needs 
be  developed  at  length;  must  be  momentous  in  its  import, 
and  imposing  or  intense  in  its  delineation,  so  as  plainly 
to  transcend  all  other  parts  of  the  play  in  the  impression 
it  leaves  upon  the  mind. 

Here  arises  the  question  whether  an  action  properly 
tragic,  after  conducting  the  primary  person  through  calam- 
ity, may  end  in  his  triumph,  and  thus  involve  the  adver- 
sary alone  in  final  ruin.  Aristotle  indeed  gives  to  such 
a  plot  the  qualified  sanction  of  "  toleration."  This  termi- 
nation, he  says,  is  more  appropriate  to  comedy,  and  has 
nothing  better  to  justify  it  than  a  questionable  concession 
to  the  sympathies  of  the  spectators.     In  our  own  day  we 


116  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

should  hardly  apply  the  term  "  tragedy  "  at  all  to  a  plot 
which  leads  the  hero,  through  whatever  difficulties,  to 
eventual  prosperity  and  the  achievement  of  his  desires. 

Hecuba  is  an  instance  of  a  play  with  a  so-called  "  double  " 
termination.  Polymestor,  the  antagonist,  is  alone  involved  in 
ultimate  disaster ;  Hecuba,  after  all  her  sufferings,  meets  the  un- 
tragic  end  in  which  her  revenge  is  gratified  to  the  last  detail, 
although  the  poet  endeavors  to  make  some  slight  amends  for  this 
by  casting  over  her,  before  the  termination  of  the  play,  the 
shadow  of  an  evil  prophecy.^ 

Ancient  Greek  Tragedy 

The  tragedy  of  the  ancient  Greeks  is  in  many  respects 
different  from  our  own. 

(1)  The  first  quality  that  strikes  the  reader  is  its  extreme 
simplicity.  To  achieve  this  simplicity  was  the  one  great 
aim  of  the  Greek  dramatist.  The  romantic  drama  is  often 
compared  to  a  painter's  canvas,  crowded  with  characters, 
representing  an  intricate  situation,  retreating  into  a  deep 
background  and  showing  contrasts  of  light  and  shade ;  the 
Greek  tragedy  rather  resembles  a  piece  of  sculpture,  simple 
in  design,  majestic  in  outline,  and  perfect  in  proportions. 
This  comparison  gives  a  perfect  idea  of  the  form  and  spirit 
of  the  productions  of  the  Greek  stage.  Consequently  we 
make  a  mistake  to  seek  in  Sophocles  for  all  the  qualities 
we  find  in  Shakespeare.  If  we  are  to  appreciate  ancient 
tragedy  we  must  judge  it  from  the  standpoint  of  statuesque 
simplicity ;  we  are  not  to  look  for  the  intricate  plot,  highly 
colored  imagery,  detailed  elaboration  of  the  Elizabethan 
plays. 

(2)  This  simplicity  shows  itself  in  various  ways.  First, 
the  unity  is  more   compact.     There  is  a  "unity  of  time'' 

iQn  Tragedy  in  general  see  Freytag's  "Technique  of  the  Drama," 
translated  by  MacEwan. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  117 

which  forbids  the  action  to  occupy  more  than  a  single  day, 
and  a  "  unity  of  place  "  which  requires  the  scene  to  remain 
unchanged  throughout  the  play.  These  two  unities  are 
unknown  to  the  English  stage,  but,  with  only  a  few  ex- 
ceptions, were  observed  by  the  Greeks.  But  even  the  unity 
of  action  itself  is  more  rigidly  adhered  to.  Thus,  double 
actions,  so  prevalent  in  Shakespeare,  have  no  place  in  Greek 
tragedy ;  subsidiary  details  that  serve  for  mere  purposes  of 
contrast  or  heightening,  such  as  the  stocking  of  Kent  in 
"King  Lear  "  (see  analysis  below),  are  few  and  brief;  intri- 
cate situations  are  avoided,  as,  for  instance,  the  rivalry  of 
Goneril  and  Eegan  for  the  hand  of  Edmund  in  the  third  act 
of  the  same  play.  The  action  of  a  Greek  play  has  the  unity 
that  belongs  to  a  stately  column,  the  action  of  a  romantic 
tragedy  the  unity  of  a  luxuriant  oak  tree. 

(3)  Greek  simplicity  is  to  be  seen  also  in  the  characters. 
They  are  comparatively  few  in  number ;  no  more  than  three 
speaking  characters  may  occupy  the  stage  at  the  same  time. 
Still  more  simple  is  their  delineation.  Shakespeare  puts 
before  us  many-sided,  often  highly  complex,  personalities, 
and  draws  them  minutely  and  with  full  detail.  See,  for  in- 
stance, how  ineffectual  is  the  critic's  attempt  to  analyze 
Hamlet  or  Macbeth.  Sophocles,  too,  shows  indeed  the 
master  hand;  his  characters  are  not  vague,  shadowy,  in- 
distinct ;  but  he  sketches  in  bold  outline,  he  is  not  penetrat- 
ing, not  minute  ;  in  depicting  even  his  prominent  persons 
he  selects  hardly  more  than  two  or  three  traits  —  such  as 
serve  the  requirements  of  his  fable,  or  such  as  are  required 
for  purposes  of  contrast,  and  he  confines  himself  to  the 
exhibition  of  these. 

(4)  The  internal  structure  of  the  Greek  play  follows  the 
general  model  described  above.^  But  its  external  divisions 
are  more  formal.     It  is  divided  into  the  following  distinct 

1  See  p.  112. 


118  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

parts :  first  the  prologos,  which  is  commensurate  with  the 
introduction  of  the  action,  described  above;  then  follow 
several  epeisodia,  each  containing  a  distinct  phase  of  the 
action  proper ;  finally  the  exodos,  which  embraces  the  con- 
clusion after  the  climax.  These  parts  are  kept  separated 
one  from  another  by  four  or  more  choral  odes,  called  re- 
spectively the  parodos,  or  entrance  song,  and  the  first, 
second,  third  stasima.  They  are  sung  between  the  several 
acts  or  parts  by  a  chorus  of  fifteen  appropriate  characters, 
who  occupy  the  center  of  the  theater  below  the  stage 
and  accompany  their  chant  by  some  form  of  measured 
dance.  This  chorus,  speaking  through  their  leader,  the 
coryphceos,  often  holds  a  brief  dialogue  with  the  persons 
on  the  stage.  The  subject  of  the  choral  odes  is  suggested 
by  what  has  just  been  enacted  on  the  stage.  Their  artistic 
value  lies  in  this,  that  the  emotion  awakened  in  the  audi- 
ence by  the  scene  just  witnessed  is  sustained  and  emphasized 
by  the  singing,  and  the  actors  returning  to  the  stage  do  not 
find  a  lagging  and  distracted  audience  whose  interest  must 
be  enkindled  anew. 

(Edipus,  in  the  play,  rushes  from  the  stage  after  his  appalling 
discovery,  with  the  piercing  words, 

"  Oh  light  of  day !  Now  for  the  last  time  may  I  gaze  upon 
thee  —  I,  who  have  been  found  accursed  in  birth,  accursed  in 
wedlock,  accursed  in  the  shedding  of  blood." 

One  can  readily  recognize  the  power  of  a  strain  of  music 
instantly  taken  up  by  the  lyriccry  of  the  chorus, — 

"  Oh  ye  race  of  men,  how  do  I  account  your  life  as  nothing ! 
Where,  where,  is  the  mortal  who  wins  more  of  happiness  than 
the  semblance  thereof,  and  after  the  semblance  a  passing  away. 
Thine  is  a  fate  that  warns  me,  thine,  thine,  unhappy  (Edipus,  to 
call  no  creature  blest." 

(5)  The  treatment  of  the  action  also  differs  from  that  of 
modern  plays.     First,  our  drama  depends  largel}^  upon  the 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  119 

element  of  surprise ;  that  is,  the  issue  is  studiously  con- 
cealed from  the  audience  ;  their  curiosity  is  thus  excited,  and 
when  the  catastrophe  is  revealed,  the  play  is  brought  rapidly 
to  an  end.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Greek  poet  prefers  to  let 
the  spectators  into  the  secret  from  the  beginning.  He  shows 
them  the  victim  advancing  unconsciously  toward  the  preci- 
pice over  which  he  is  to  plunge.  The  intense  pathos  of 
such  a  spectacle  would  only  be  weakened  by  the  feeling  of 
curiosity  as  to  his  fate.  Hence  the  importance  in  ancient 
tragedy  of  what  is  known  as  the  anagnorisis  or  "  recognition," 
by  which  the  unconscious  subject  awakes  at  last  to  the 
knowledge  of  his  position. 

Secondly,  the  Greek  tragedy  almost  invariably  ends  in  re- 
pose. After  the  excitement  of  the  climax,  a  passage  follows 
which  moderates  the  emotions  and  leads  to  concluding  lines 
breathing  serenity  and  tranquil  submission  to  fate. 

(6)  Finally,  Greek  tragedy  is  invested  with  a  distinctly 
religious  character.  Originating  in  dithyrambic  odes  in 
honor  of  the  god  Dionysus,  it  continued,  even  after  it  passed 
into  the  dramatic  stage,  to  move  in  a  religious  atmosphere. 
The  central  conception  in  most  of  the  plays  is  that  of  fate 
or  destiny  wielded  by  divine  power  over  the  life  of  man, 
and  continual  reference  is  made  to  the  deities  both  in 
the  lyrical  and  dialogue  parts.  Hence  it  is  that  Greek 
tragedy  is  highly  ethical  in  tone  and  purpose.  Yet  its 
moral  utterances  are  never  cold  abstractions,  never  unin- 
spired. "  It  is  only  in  the  greatest  tragedies  of  Shakespeare, 
such  as  Hamlet  and  Macbeth,  that  we  meet  with  anything 
like  an  equal  combination  of  dramatic  power  and  profound 
moral  significance."  ^ 

The  preceding  details  are  illustrated  in  brief,  in  the 
following  analysis:  — 

1  See  Haigh,  "  The  Tragic  Drama  of  the  Greeks,"  where  this  whole  sub- 
ject is  admirably  treated. 


120 


THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 


ANALYSIS   OF   THE   (EDIPUS  TYRANNUS 


a.    The  Plague  in  Thebes 
h.   The  Answer  of  the  Oracle 

Prologos  of  the  Action. 

Lament  over  the  Plague 

c.  The  Proclamation  of  CEdipus 

d.  Creon's  Suggestion 

e.  The  Interview  with  Telresias 

Parodos  of  the  Chorus. 
First  Epeisodion. 

Horror  for   the   Murderer;    loyalty    to 
(Edipus 

First  Stasimon. 

f.  The  Quarrel  with  Creon 

g.  The  Intervention  of  Jocasta 
h.    Her  Reassurances 

i.   The  Suspicion  of  CEdipus  that  He  is  the 

Murderer 
j.    The  Summoning  of  the  Herdsman 

Second  Epeisodion. 

Prayer  against  Impiety  and  Arrogance 
X.    The  Coming  of  the  Corinthian 
y.    The  Partial   Revelation  of  CEdipus' s 

Parentage 
z.   The  Horror  of  Jocasta  on  learning  the 

Whole  Truth 

Second  Stasimon. 
Third  Epeisodion. 

Joyous  Predictions  concerning  GEdijms 
k.   The  Interview  between  the  Corinthian 

and  the  Herdsman 
I.   The  Complete  Discovery 

Third  Stasimon. 

1 

\  Fourth  Epeisodion. 

J 

Lamentation  over  the  Fall  of  (Edipus 
m.    The  Death  of  Jocasta  and  the  Self- 
inflicted  Blindness  of  CEdipus 
n.   The  Exhibition  of  the  Fallen  CEdipus    | 

Fourth  Stasimon. 
1 
Exodos. 

(1)  The  appropriateness  of  the  choral  odes  does  not  ap- 
pear from  this  brief  sketch,  but  is  obvious  to  any  one 
reading  the  play. 

(2)  The  marginal  letters  indicate  the  causal  nexus  be- 
tween the  incidents;  thus,  the  plague  gives  rise  to  the  oracle,' 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  121 

the  oracle  causes  the  proclamation,  and  Creon's  suggestion, 
and  so  forth.  It  will  be  seen  that  no  incident  arises  from 
causes  outside  the  action,  except  the  coming  of  the 
Corinthian. 

(3)  The  action  is  concerned  with  "  the  search  for  the  mur- 
derer of  Laius."  This  formulates  its  unity.  It  begins  with 
the  institution  of  the  search,  and  ends  with  the  discovery. 

(4)  The  prologos  or  introduction  is  prefatory  ;  it  presents 
the  situation  out  of  which  the  action  arises,  viz.,  the  plague; 
it  indicates  the  exciting  force,  viz.,  the  oracle ;  and  it  in- 
troduces CEdipiis  as  the  benignant  king,  at  the  same  time 
hinting  at  that  impetuosity  of  character  which  involves  him 
in  misfortune. 

(5)  The  action  proper,  viz.,  "  the  search  "  —  contains  two 
distinct  and  contrasted  phases  ;  in  the  first  half,  (Edipus  is 
on  the  wrong  clew,  and  grows  more  and  more  self-confident. 
This  brings  us  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  second  epeisodion. 
In  the  second  half,  he  starts  on  the  right  clew,  and  grows 
more  and  more  alarmed.  The  turning  point  occurs  when  the 
suspicion  first  dawns  on  (Edipus  that  he  is  the  guilty  person, 
about  line  726. 

(6)  The  exodos,  or  conclusion,  follows  after  the  action, 
i.e.  after  the  search  is  ended,  and  represents  the  conse- 
quences or  aftermath. 

(7)  The  three  conspicuous  points  in  the  action  are  im- 
pressive ;  the  starting  point,  —  the  stern  denunciation  of 
the  murder ;  the  turning  point,  —  the  unmistakable  mis- 
givings of  (Edipus  in  lines  726-770;  the  climax, — the 
passionate  despair  of  (Edipus  as  he  rushes  from  the  scene 
after  the  discovery.  This  and  not  the  following  is  the  climax 
of  the  play  ;  the  scenes  described  by  the  messenger  are 
properly  a  descent  in  intensity  from  the  terrors  of  the 
fourth  epeisodion. 

(8)  We  may  note  three  places  where  the  action  pauses,  or 


122 


THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 


is  retarded  for  the  sake  of  emphasizing  the  impression. 
The  first  of  these  is  the  denunciation, — to  heighten  the 
malice  of  the  crime;  secondly,  the  quarrel,  —  to  display 
the  suspicious  phase  of  (Edipus'  character ;  third,  the  whole 
of  the  third  epeisodion,  —  to  serve  as  a  pause  on  the 
brink  of  the  precipice. 

ANALYSIS  OF  KING  LEAR 

The  following  sketch  exhibits  in  parallel  columns  the  es- 
sential steps  in  the  two  actions :  — 


1.    King  Lear  divides  his  king- 
dom —  Cordelia  left  dower- 


2.  Lear  spurned  by  Goneril. 

3.  Lear  cast  off  by  both 
daughters. 

4.  Lear  battling  with  the 
storm. 

5.  Lear,  mad,  is  succored  by 
Gloucester  and  others.  4. 

6.  Lear  on  the  way  to  re- 
covery, *'  matter  and  im- 
pertinency  mixed." 


Edmund  lays  his  plans  and 
takes  the  first  steps  in  the 
deception  of  Gloucester. 

The  deception  reinforced 
—  Edgar  takes  to  flight. 


Edmund  and  Cornwall  con- 
spire against  Gloucester. 

Gloucester  blinded  and 
cast  out  as  a  partisan  of 
Lear's. 


7.  Lear   restored   and   in  the 
arms  of  Cordelia. 

Goneril  and  Regan  rivals  for 

8.  Death  of  Lear  and  Cordelia,  o 
and  others.. 


Gloucester  cared  for  by 
Edgar,  and  saved  from  as- 
sassination and  suicide. 

the  hand  of  Edmund. 

f  Goneril,  Regan,  Edmund, 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  123 

1.  In  this  bare  outline  we  may  see  the  essential  stages 
of  the  two  plots;  in  the  main  plot  (1)  represents  the 
introdiiction ;  (2),  (3),  (4),  (5),  represent  the  first  half  of 
the  action,  with  the  turning  point ;  (6)  and  (7)  the  second 
half;  (8)  the  conclusion.  The  development  of  the  sub- 
plot advances  pari  passu  with  the  main  plot:  thus  (1) 
indicates  the  introduction  and  beginning  of  the  action; 
(2),  (3),  (4),  the  first  half,  to  the  turning  point;  (5) 
the  restoration  of  Gloucester,  after  which  he  disappears 
from  view. 

2.  The  relation  between  the  two  plots  forms  another  point 
of  interest.  Gloucester's  sympathy  for  Lear  is  the  first  trace 
of  connection  between  them;  then  Edmund  leagues  with 
Cornwall  against  Lear  and  Gloucester,  which  draws  the  two 
actions  into  closer  relationship ;  in  the  fourth  act  the  in- 
trigues of  Goneril  and  Regan  for  the  hand  of  Edmund  com- 
plete the  unification.  Gloucester  is  dropped  from  sight,  and 
in  the  conclusion  all  the  forces  of  the  play  are  centred 
about  the  person  of  Lear  himself.  It  may  be  noticed  that, 
in  the  second  half,  the  action  both  of  the  main  plot  and  sub- 
plot halt,  and  fails  to  match  the  activities  of  the  first  half. 
The  incidents  centre  about  Edmund  and  the  two  sisters, 
rather  than  about  the  chief  characters.  A  similar  weakness 
of  construction  is  to  be  found  in  "  Macbeth." 

3.  The  outline  of  either  of  these  actions  in  "  King  Lear  " 
would  form  abundant  material  for  more  than  one  Greek 
tragedy.  Shakespeare  not  only  uses  both  plots  together, 
but  interweaves  many  subsidiary  incidents  and  details  not 
alluded  to  above.  These  serve  to  prepare  and  intensify  the 
chief  incident  about  which  they  centre.  Thus,  in  Act  I, 
Sc.  4,  first  Kent  is  introduced  in  disguise,  thus  serving  by 
his  fidelity  as  a  foil  to  the  sisters ;  then  follows  the  episode 
with  Oswald,  to  prepare  us  by  Lear's  outburst  here  for  his 
wrath  that  is  to  come ;  thirdly,  the  Fool  appears  and  brings 


124  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

before  the  King's  mind  the  ignominy  of  his  condition ;  and 
it  is  only  after  all  this  that  the  chief  incident  occurs,  viz., 
Lear's  rejection  by  Goneril. 

Comedy 

1.  Definition.  — Comedy  proper  is  that  species  of  dramatic 
composition  which  humorously  satirizes  human  character. 

Hence  we  distinguish  comedy  proper  from  what  is  some- 
times termed  "Romantic  Comedy,"  in  which  the  comic  ele- 
ment is  subordinated  to  a  plot  of  serious  character,  ending 
not  tragically  but  happily.  To  this  class  belong  most  of 
Shakespeare's  comedies,  such  as  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  and  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona." 

Comedy  proper  is  also  to  be  distinguished  from  such  plots 
as  possess  no  character  significance,  and  are  hardly  more 
than  a  tissue  of  farcical  situations  arising  from  purely  ac- 
cidental circumstances.  A  typical  instance  is  "  The  Comedy 
of  Errors."  Such  plots,  at  least  in  their  general  conception, 
have  no  strictly  poetical  value. 

2.  The  End  of  Comedy.  —  The  end  of  comedy  proper  is  to 
amuse  ;  but  its  significance  as  poetry  lies  in  the  fact  that  its 
amusement  is  concerned  with  the  defects  or  incongruities  of 
human  character,  and  hence  it  too  in  its  measure  is  a 
"  criticism  of  life."  ^ 

3.  Sources  of  Humor.  —  The  comic  effect  may  originate 
from  two  sources.  First,  from  the  characters  themselves; 
the  traits  they  exhibit  may  be  so  incongruous  and  surpris- 
ing as  to  be  ludicrous  independently  of  the  course  of  events 
which  arise.  Secondly,  the  comic  effect  may  originate  from 
the  unexpected  situations  in  which  they  involve  themselves. 
In  every  well-handled  comedy,  both  of  these  sources  will  be 
found ;  one  hardly  exists  without  the  other. 

1  See  "  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  aud  Fiue  Art,"  Chap.  X. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  125 

Thus  in  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "  we  find  a  highly  com- 
plicated intrigue  made  up  of  two  plots:  first,  Falstaff's  advances 
to  the  two  "Merry  Wives,"  bringing  upon  his  head  repeated 
misadventures ;  and  secondly,  the  advances  of  Dr.  Caius,  Slender, 
and  young  Fenton  to  Anne  Page,  involving  the  burlesque^  duel. 
A  series  of  ludicrous  situations  is  constantly  passing.  Besides  this, 
the  character  of  the  amorous,  avaricious,  and  dense-witted  Falstaff 
is  in  itself  ludicrous ;  also  the  foolish  doctor  who  takes  himself 
so  seriously,  the  imbecile  Slender,  and  the  meddling  Welsh  priest. 
Against  these  are  set  the  characters  of  the  two  staunchly  faithful 
but  humorous  "  Wives,"  the  amiable  Anne,  and  the  romantic 
Fenton ;  and,  balancing  each  other  in  the  two  actions,  the  mischief- 
loving  innkeeper,  and  Dame  Quickly. 

4.  The  Treatment  of  the  Action.  —  Of  the  unity  and  struc- 
ture of  the  comic  plot,  little  is  to  be  said.  In  general  they 
follow  the  principles  laid  down  for  tragedy,  but  with  rather 
more  latitude  than  is  conceded  to  the  latter.  For  the  unity 
of  idea  is  not  always  so  clearly  defined  as  in  tragedy,  nor 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  action  so  nicely  balanced  either  in 
length  or  in  emphasis. 

Two  important  differences  between  tragic  and  comic  treat- 
ment must  be  noted.  First :  in  comedy  the  emotions  must 
be  treated  lightly  and  superficially.  Depth  of  feeling, 
intensity  of  emotion,  strong  passion  of  whatever  kind, 
whether  of  the  lover  or  the  villain,  are  incompatible  with  the 
ludicrous.  Humor  resides  on  the  surface  of  things.  If  we 
pass  beyond  the  surface,  we  light  upon  that  graver  import, 
which  belongs  indeed  to  all  life,  to  all  reality,  but  which  can 
only  be  dimly  suggested,  if  touched  at  all,  in  comedy. 

This  is  observed  even  in  the  Romantic  Comedy ;  the  love  of  Sil- 
via and  Valentine  must  of  necessity  be  more  superficial,  or  at  least 
treated  with  less  emphasis,  than  the  love  of  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
And  in  "  The  Two  Captives  "  of  Plautus,  the.  heavy  retribution 
which  falls  upon  the  runaway  slave  at  the  end  of  the  play  is  passed 
off  with  a  jest  by  the  slave  himself. 


126  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

Secondly,  the  law  of  tragic  action,  that  each  successive 
incident  should  be  linked  by  causality  with  the  preceding 
and  should  result  in  great  measure  from  the  struggle  of  the 
primary  personage,  cannot  be  maintained  in  the  comic  plot. 
Here,  much  must  of  necessity  be  the  result  of  chance,  or  of 
some  scheme  artfully  concocted  by  the  characters,  rather 
than  the  working  out  of  inevitable  law.  This  proceeds 
from  the  very  nature  of  comic  action.  The  humor  de- 
pends very  largely  upon  the  suddenness  of  what  occurs. 
What  proceeds  from  the  operation  of  natural  causes  observed 
by  us  can  rarely  surprise  us  when-  it  actually  comes  to  pass ; 
when  we  observe  the  trend  of  events  towards  a  goal,  the 
goal  will  hardly  be  unexpected  when  reached.  Consequently 
comic  plot  must  frequently  throw  before  us  incidents  which 
are  unprepared  and  uncaused,  or  whose  causes  are  hidden 
from  our  eyes.  And.  as  a  further  extension  of  this  liberty, 
comic  episodes  may  be  introduced  that  are  quite  superfluous 
to  the  working  out  of  the  plot. 

In  "  The  Two  Captives,"  the  character  of  the  parasite, 
though  a  prominent  feature  of  the  play  from  prologue  to  epilogue, 
is  merely  a  by-part,  without  influence  on  the  turn  of  events ;  and 
the  two  cardinal  incidents  of  the  play  come  about  by  chance,  for 
one  of  the  two  captives  purchased  by  Hegio  turns  out  to  be  his  son, 
and  his  guest  Aristophontes  happens  to  be  an  intimate  friend  of 
Philocrates,  and  so  is  able  to  unmask  Tyndarus. 

Ancient  Classic  Comedy 

The  comedy  of  the  ancient  Greeks  falls  into  two  groups, 
'each  with  characteristics  of  its  own.  They  are  designated 
as  "  Old  Comedy "  and  "  New  ^Comedy."  Of  the  latter 
no  examples  survive,  but  the  tradition  is  preserved  in  the 
comedy  of  the  Romans,  who  are  supposed  to  have  followed 
closely  these  later  Greek  models.  The  "  New  Comedy," 
therefore,  is  represented  by  the  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence. 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  127 

1.  Old  Comedy.  —  The  old  comedy  of  the  Greeks  originated 
from  a  gradual  blending  of  two  ingredients,  the  komos,  a 
wandering  dance  through  the  countryside  accompanied  with 
wild  reveling  and,  the  natural  element  in  all  comedy,  satire. 
Consequently,  the  comic  effect  as  we  find  it  in  the  plays  of 
Aristophanes  is  reducible  to  two  features  corresponding  to 
the  above  ;  namely,  an  extravagant  fancy,  and  a  satiric  com- 
ment (often  of  a  political  or  literary  character)  conveyed 
through  the  medium  of  the  extravaganza. 

Thus  in  "  The  Birds  "  two  old  Athenians  visit  the  kingdom  of 
the  birds,  and  eventually  it  is  agreed  by  both  birds  and  men  to  build 
Cloud-Cuckoo  Town  midway  between  heaven  and  earth.  This  is 
the  extravaganza.  They  are  weary  of  the  wranglings  and  con- 
tentions at  Athens  and  the  exactions  of  the  gods.  This  forms  the 
basis  of  the  satire. 

The  structure  is  built  along  the  general  lines  of  tragedy, 
but  possesses  greater  freedom  of  form.  Thus  we  have  the 
prologos  or  introduction,  which  explains  the  origin  of  the 
extravagant  plot  and  is  often  very  long ;  then  the  develop- 
ment of  the  plot  in  a  series  of  epeisodia;  and  finally  the 
outcome,  or  exodos,  generally  accompanied  with  spectacular 
effects,  such  as  a  bridal  ceremony  or  a  torchlight  procession. 
As  in  tragedy,  there  is  a  chorus  which  sings  its  odes  in  the 
intervals  between  the  several  scenes.  Sometimes  we  find  one 
or  more  subsidiary  choruses,  as  in  the  "  Frogs,"  in  which  the 
well-known  "  coax,  coax  "  chant  is  heard  from  the  stage  wings. 

The  "  Frogs  "  opens  with  the  adventures  of  Bacchus  and  his  slave, 
who  are  preparing  to  descend  into  Hades  in  order  to  bring 
back  to  Athens  the  deceased  poet  Euripides.  This  is  the 
introduction.  After  the  choral  song  of  the  frogs  there  follow 
a  series  of  comic  incidents  in  Hades,  chief  of  which  is  the  contest 
for  supremacy  between  the  tragic  poets,  jEschylus  and  Euripides. 
This  is  the  development,  containing  the  extravagant  idea  of  a 
visit  to  Hades  and  not  a  little  venomous  satire  on  the  tragedies 


128  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

of  Euripides.  In  the  exodos,  Bacchus,  having  adjudged  vEschylus 
to  be  the  better  poet,  carries  him  oft"  to  earth  accompanied  by  a 
sacred  procession  of  torches. 

The  most  striking  peculiarity  of  the  Old  Comedy  is  the 
parabasis.  This  is  a  sort  of  lyric  interlude  in  which  the 
chorus  turns  from  the  stage  and  addresses  the  spectators, 
giving  up,  for  the  time,  their  dramatic  connection  with  the 
play.     It  is  made  up  of  five  distinct  parts. 

(a)  The  parabasis  proper,  an  open,  undisguised  satire  of 
a  political  or  social  nature,  written  in  anapests. 

(b)  A  lyric  strophe  invoking  some  deity,  or  parodying  a 
choral  ode  of  tragedy. 

(c)  An  epirrhema,  treating  of  some  patriotic  or  political 
theme,  written  in  trochaic  measure. 

(d)  An  a7itistrophe,  continuing  the  strophe. 

(e)  An  antepirrhema,  continuing  the  epirrhema. 

In  the  "  Clouds"  the  parabasis  proper  is  a  humorous  exalta- 
tion of  the  writer  of  the  comedy  (who  speaks  to  the  audience  in 
the  first  person)  over  his  rivals ;  the  strophe  contains  an  invocation 
of  Zeus  and  ^ther  in  mock  imitation  of  Sophocles's  "  Teucer  " ; 
the  epirrhema  introduces  a  description  of  an  Athenian  election 
supposed  to  be  an  offense  against  the  Clouds ;  the  antistrophe  is 
a  parody  on  the  dithyrambic  poets ;  the  antepirrhema  continues  the 
subject  of  the  epirrhema. 

The  parabasis  forms  the  chief  external  difference  between 
Greek  tragedy  and  the  Old  Comedy.  Minor  points  are  the 
following :  that  the  choral  odes  are  frequently  very  short,  — 
lyrical  lines  are  freely  introduced  to  break  the  monotony  of 
long  epeisodia,  —  forensic  contests  are  interrupted  by  ana- 
pests, —  the  chorus,  before  its  first  appearance,  is  generally 
summoned  or  introduced  by  characters  on  the  stage. 

2.  The  New  (Roman)  Comedy.  —  This  differs  in  essential 
features  from  the  preceding. 

(a)  The  extravagant  fancy  entirely  disappears,  and  the 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  129 

interest  depends,  not  on  the  wildness  of  the  absurdity, 
but  on  the  very  opposite,  the  probability,  truth,  and  natural- 
ness with  which  the  action  is  worked  out;  in  a  word, 
we  find  here  the  interest  that  attaches  to  human  beings 
like  ourselves  placed  in  ridiculous  but  intelligible  situa- 
tions. The  satiric  element,  too,  has  a  less  conspicuous 
place ;  it  is  not  commonly  the  direct  satire  of  Aristophanes  ; 
but  rather  it  underlies  the  plot,  which  for  this  purpose  is 
usually  a  caricature  of  some  social  type,  as  the  disappointed 
lover,  the  runaway  slave,  the  parasite. 

(b)  The  structural  parts  are  as  usual ;  the  introduction, 
the  development  (which,  in  this  species  of  poetry,  involves 
the  characters  in  some  complication  or  perplexity),  and 
the  conclusion,  which  unravels  the  situation  or  clears  up  the 
difficulty.  In  addition  to  the  essential  plot,  it  is  not  unusual 
to  introduce  a  by-character,  such  as  the  parasite  in  the 
"Two  Captives"  of  Plautus,  the  hilarious  slave  in  the 
"Stichus"  of  Plautus,  the  scheming  slave  in  the  "Phor- 
mio "  of  Terence.  These  are  not  essential  to  the  plot  and 
merely  serve  the  purpose  of  furnishing  a  supply  of  comic 
incidents  of  their  own. 

A  favorite  method  of  complication  is  to  involve  the  characters 
in  some  error  which  is  cleared  up  at  the  end.  In  the  "  Mostellaria '' 
of  Plautus  the  father  of  a  family,  amazed  to  hear  the  sound  of 
revelry  issuing  from  his  house,  is  deterred  from  entering  by  a 
slave,  who  assures  him  that  the  place  is  infested  by  evil  spirits. 
This  deception  leads  the  slave  into  embarrassing  difficulties,  and 
at  last  his  story  collapses  and  the  master  comes  into  his  own. 
The  "  Menaechmi "  is  founded  on  a  case  of  mistaken  identity  like 
Shakespeare's  "  Comedy  of  Errors." 

In  conclusion  we  may  point  out  several  points  of  dif- 
ference in  the  external  features  of  the  Old  and  the  New 
Comedy.  First,  the  chorus  has  entirely  disappeared.  In  its 
place  we  find  that  the  dialogue  rises  occasionally  from  iambic 


130  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

or  anapestic  to  strictly  lyrical  metres,  to  give  expression  to 
passages  of  exceptional  emotional  significance.  Secondly, 
the  prologos  is  not  an  introductory  scene  of  the  drama, 
but  a  prefatory  speech  outside  the  play,  addressed  to  the 
audience  and  containing  a  sketch  of  the  action.  Hence  it 
is  equivalent  to  the  modern  prologue.  An  epilogue  is 
recited  after  the  action  is  finished,  asking  the  spectators  to 
give  their  applause.  Thirdly,  with  the  disappearance  of 
the  chorus,  disappears  the  formal  division  into  epeisodia  of 
the  Old  Comedy  and  Tragedy.  In  their  place  we  have  the 
beginning  of  the  acts  and  scenes  of  our  time,  but  with  a 
difference  of  meaning.  A  new  scene  is  numbered  as  often  as  a 
character  enters  or  leaves  the  stage  ;  an  act  is  completed  when 
all  the  characters  retire,  leaving  the  stage  temporarily  vacant.^ 

EXERCISES 

1.  Sketch  in  outline  the  plot  of  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth,  show- 
ing the  introduction,  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  action  with  the  several 
stages  of  each,  the  turning  point,  the  catastrophe,  the  conclusion. 

2.  Show  how  the  character  of  Macbeth  is  so  drawn  as  to  be  a 
fit  subject  for  tragic  action,  i.e.  to  exhibit  a  soul-struggle  against 
contending  forces. 

3.  The  "Hecuba"  of  Euripides  betrays  many  defects  of  con- 
.struction  ;  point  out  the  following:  — 

(a)  Why  there  is  want  of  unity  in  the  plot. 

(b)  What  is  defective  in  the  prologos,  or  introduction.    . 

(c)  Why  Hecuba  in  the  second  half  of  the  play  is  not  suitable 
as  a  primary  personage. 

(c?)  Show  to  what  extent  the  choral  odes  fail  in  appropriateness, 
(e)  In  the  first  stasimon,  show  how  the  imagery,  in  spite  of  its 
beauty,  is  not  suggestive  of  the  emotion  to  be  conveyed. 

4.  Write  an  essay  discussing  the  manner  in  which  Shakespeare 
has  handled  the  story  of  Macbeth,  as  found  in  Holinshed's  Chron- 

1  On  Comedy  see  Moulton,  "  The  Ancient  Classical  Drama." 


DRAMATIC  POETRY  131 

icle,^  in  order  to  suit  it  to  a  tragedy,  —  noting  in  particular  the 
following  heads :  — 

(a)  His  selection  of  material  for  the  chief  incidents  of  his  plot. 

(b)  His  condensation  of  material  for  the  sake  of  climax. 

(c)  His  invention  of  new  material  not  found  in  the  Chronicle. 

(d)  His  invention  of  details  in  the  character  of  Macbeth. 

5.  Sketch  briefly,  and  in  order,  the  chief  incidents  in  "The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  showing  the  double  plot,  the  introduc- 
tion, climax,  and  conclusion  of  each. 

1  The  relation  of  Holinshed  is  to  be  found  in  Rolfe's  edition  of  the 
tragedy,  pp.  136  ff. 


CHAPTER  III 
Lyric  Poetry 

1.  Definition.  —  The  Lyric  is  that  form  of  poetry  in  which 
the  primary  and  direct  object  is  to  express  the  personal 
emotion  or  emotional  conceptions  of  the  writer. 

In  this  definition  note  :  — 

First,  that  what  is  expressed  in  lyric  poetry  is  personal 
to  the  writer.  This  distinguishes  lyric  from  dramatic  poetry, 
in  which  the  poet  speaks  not  in  his  own  person  at  all,  but 
in  the  person  of  his  characters. 

Secondly,  that  the  material  which  the  poet  lyricizes  is 
emotion  and  strictly  emotional  thought.  Here  it  may  be 
objected  that  narrative  poetry  too  expresses  the  emotion  of 
the  writer,  and  hence  would  not  be  distinguished  from  lyric 
poetry  by  the  definition  given  above.  In  answer  to  this, 
note. 

Thirdly,  that  to  express  personal  emotion  is  the  direct 
2indi  primary  object  of  the  lyric.  These  words  are  meant  to 
distinguish  the  attitude  of  the  narrative  poet  from  that  of  the 
lyricist.  The  formal  object  of  all  poetry,  as  we  have  seen, 
is  to  express  emotion ;  now  the  strictly  narrative  poet  fixes 
his  attention  on  the  emotion  contained  in  the  story  which 
he  is  telling,  the  lyric  poet  on  the  emotion  contained  in  his 
own  breast.  In  other  words,  the  narrator  does  not  profess 
to  set  forth,  primarily  and  directly,  what  he  himself  thinks 
or  feels  in  a  personal  way  about  the  narrative.  If  he 
is  a  good  story-teller,  he  forgets  himself  entirely  and  is 
absorbed  in  what  he  is  narrating,  —  in  its  emotional  char- 

132 


LYRIC  POETRY  .  133 

acter,  if  he  is  a  poet , —  in  otheE  features,  if  he  is  a  prose 
narrator.  The  lyric  poet  takes  precisely  the  opposite  atti- 
tude; what  he  tells  us  is  primarily  and  directly  what  he 
himself  thinks  and  feels,  his  musings,  his  meditations,  his 
aspirations,  his  ravings. 

Sometimes  indeed  the  lyric  poet  uses  a  narrative  as 
the  basis  of  his  lyric,  as  in  the  ballad,  and  then  the 
difference  between  himself  and  the  narrator  becomes  ap- 
parent. The  latter  literally  tells  the  story  (always,  of  course, 
in  poetry,  for  its  emotional  value)  ;  the  lyric  poet  does  not 
tell  the  tale,  but  sings  about  it.  It  is  as  if  his  audience 
knew  the  story  beforehand,  and  so  he  can  touch  the  facts 
themselves  lightly,  off-hand,  and  indirectly,  and,  in  unison 
with  his  hearers,  can  mourn,  or  rejoice,  or  ponder  over  the 
facts ;  that  is,  in  a  word,  the  lyric  poet  expresses  what  he 
himself  feels  about  the  narrative. 

A  poem  with  such  a  narrative  basis,  yet  strictly  lyrical  in  treat- 
ment, is  "  Lord  Ullin's  Daughter "  (Golden  Treasury,  CCXXV). 
Ill  this  example  the  lyric  character  is  manifest ;  in  many  other 
poems  the  subjective  and  objective  elements  are  so  nearly  equal  as 
to  make  it  impossible  to  class  them  decisively  as  narratives  or  as 
lyrics;  and  in  the  midst  of  a  narrative  poem,  even  of  a  strict  epic, 
we  may  find  short  passages  approaching  the  lyric  attitude,  though 
retaining  the  epic  form.^ 

2.  Classification.  —  Lyric  poetry  may  be  classified  accord- 
ing to  various  principles  :  — 

(1)  According  to  intensity  of  emotion,  as  the  passionate 
and  the  quiet.  Such  a  classification  has  little  significance, 
but  we  may  cite  "  The  Bard,''  and  the  "  Ode  on  a  Distant 
Prospect  of  Eton  College,"  as  representing  respectively 
these  degrees  of  emotion. 

(2)  According  to  subject  matter,  as  amatory,  political, 
religious,  moral,  and  nature  lyrics.     This  division  is  perhaps 

1  See  p.  95. 


134  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

still   less  serviceable,  and  is  necessarily  inadequate,  since 
the  subject-matter  of  the  lyric  is  inexhaustible. 

(3)  According  to  metrical  scheme,  as  regular,  irregular, 
and  antistrophic.  In  every  lyric  the  metre  must  be  in 
perfect  accord  with  the  spirit  and  sentiment  expressed, 
but  this  principle  has  special  application  to  the  irregular 
ode.  The  variation  of  the  metre  must  never  be  an  arbitrary 
arrangement,  but  must  rise  and  sink  as  the  sentiment  rises 
and  sinks,  so  that  it  falls  upon  the  ear  as  the  inevitable 
metrical  echo  of  the  thought.^  Examples  of  irregular  odes 
are  Dryden's  "  Alexander's  Feast,"  Milton's  "  Lycidas,"  and 
Wordsworth's  "  Intimations  of  Immortality." 

The  antistrophic  ode  contains  two  sections  modeled  on 
the  same  metrical  plan,  called  strophe  and  antistrophe,  fol- 
lowed by  a  concluding  section  on  a  different  but  related 
plan,  called  the  epode.  The  purpose  of  this  scheme  is  to  leave 
one  complete  musical  impression,  consisting  of  a  call,  its 
answer,  and  an  echo  (strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode).  It 
was  used  effectively  in  the  choral  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  but 
when,  as  in  English,  a  poem  is  recited  without  music,  the 
effect  of  so  intricate  an  arrangement  is  obscured  or  entirely 
lost.  Examples  of  the  antistrophic  ode  are  Gray's  "  Bard  " 
and  "  Progress  of  Poesy." 

(4)  Perhaps  a  more  natural  division  of  lyric  poetry  is  to 
be  derived  from  the  essential  poetical  elements  that  predomi- 
nate. In  this  way  we  should  class  them  as  the  "  reflective/^ 
in  which  the  intellectual  or  thought  element  is  conspicuous, 
as  in  many  of  Wordsworth's  poems;  the  "imaginative/'  in 
which  narration  or  description  is  the  basis,  as  in  Keats' s 
"  Ode  to  Autumn  " ;  the  "  emotional/'  in  which  the  feeling 
dominates  and  colors  all  else,  as  in  Shelley's  "  Skylark " 
and  "West  Wind." 

1  See  Corson,  "  Primer  of  English  Verse,"  Chap.  Ill;  also  Watts  in  En- 
cyclopaedia Britanuica,  "  Poetry,"  ad  finem. 


LYRIC  POETRY  135 

(5)  Finally,  we  have  a  recognized  terminology,  classing 
lyric  poems  as  simple  lyrics,  odes,  elegies,  ballads,  and  songs. 

(a)  Tlie  Ode  and  the  Lyric.  —  The  use  of  these  terms 
is  not  accurately  fixed.  It  is  more  usual  to  designate 
as  an  ode  a  poem  that  is  more  dignified  or  exalted  in 
thought  and  style ;  as  a  lyric,  one  that  is  more  simple, 
light,  and  brief. 

(6)  The  Elegy.  —  The  elegy  has  two  distinctive  features  ; 
first,  it  is  a  poem  of  lamentation,  especially  commemora- 
tive of  the  dead;  secondly,  it  is  quiet  and  meditative  in 
tone  rather  than  passionate  and  exalted.  From  the  nature 
of  its  subject  the  elegy  is  apt  to  be  more  immediately 
personal  in  its  sentiments  than  other  styles  of  poetry  ;  it  is 
a  species  of  confidence  between  writer  and  reader  in  which 
the  poet  makes  confession  of  a  sorrow  that  is  particularly 
his  own.^  The  best  known  elegies  in  English  are  Gray's 
"Elegy,"  Milton's  "Lycidas"  in  memory  of  Edward  King, 
Shelley's  "  Adonais  "  for  Keats,  Arnold's  "  Thyrsis  "  for 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  and  Tennyson's  chain  of  elegies, 
"  In  Memoriam  "  of  Arthur  Hallam. 

(c)  TJie  Song.  —  This  is  a  short  lyric  adapted  for  singing. 
Painstaking  smoothness  of  finish  must  be  joined  to  sponta- 
neity of  sentiment,  and  both  kept  above  the  plane  of  weak, 
commonplace  sentimentality,  and  in  the  region  of  true  poetry. 
The  chief  requirements  may  be  named  as  follows :  first,  direct- 
ness, simplicity,  and  spontaneity  of  thought ;  secondly,  sim- 
plicity of  grammatical  structure;  thirdly,  correspondence 
between  word-phrasing  and  the  phrasing  of  the  music  to 
which  the  words  are  set ;  fourthly,  an  arrangement  of 
vowel  and  consonant  sounds  that  will  give  special  ease 
and  grace  to  the  movement  itself  and  will  also  be  adapted 

1  In  classical  poetry  the  term  "elegy"  is  sometimes  applied  to  all 
longer  poems  written  in  alternate  hexameters  and  pentameters,  whatever 
their  theme. 


136  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

to  the  singing  voice,  closed  vowel  sounds  and  the  guttural 
and  sibilant  consonants  being  least  desirable. 

Of  the  many  songs  to  be  found  in  the  Golden  Treasury  the 
following  may  be  specified;  Nos.  XI,  LVI,  CXVI,  CXXIX, 
CLXVII,  CLXXVl,  CXVIII.  See  also  the  songs  placed  at  the 
end  of  the  several  cantos  of  Tennyson's  "  Princess." 

(d)  The  Ballad.  —  This  is  primarily  a  folk-song,  —  a  song 
originating  among  the  people  in  early  times.  The  subject- 
matter  is  commonly  a  narrative  concerning  the  adventures 
of  a  hero,  as  Robin  Hood,  or  legend  of  weird  or  pathetic 
character,  as  "The  Twa  Corbies,"  but  told  always  in  a  dis- 
tinctly lyrical  manner.  Sometimes  indeed  the  ballad  is  a 
pure  lyric  without  narrative,  as  "  The  Lyke-Wake  Dirge." 

In  style  and  versification  these  ballads  are  often  rude  to 
the  point  of  offense.  But  the  tone  of  the  best  ballads  is 
always  earnest,  frequently  intensely  serious,  with  a  straight- 
forwardness of  expression  that  passes  into  brusqueness. 
These  qualities  joined  now  to  a  certain  dramatic  suggestive- 
ness  in  the  manner  of  narrating,  now  to  a  romantic  ad- 
venturousness  in  the  incidents,  now  to  a  genuine  pathos  in 
the  utterance,  constitute  the  poetic  value  of  the  ballad. 

Some  of  the  external  features  of  the  old  ballads  are  the  follow- 
ing :  — 

(1)  Certain  set  epithets  and  formulas  recurring  again  and 
again,  as, 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week 
In  Noroway,  but  twae  — 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 
A  league,  but  barely  three  — 

They  hadna  gone  a  step,  a  step, 
A  step,  but  barely  one  — 

(2)  Repetitions  of  lines  in  nearly  identical  form,  especially  in 
the  speeches  of  the  characters,  as, 


LYRIC  POETRY  137 

«  Oh,  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 

Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land?" 

"  Oh,  here  am  T,  a  sailor  gude, 
To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  top-mast, 
But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land.'* 

—  "Sir  Patrick  Spens.*' 

(3)  A  certain  abruptness  in  the  telling  of  the  story  :  the  char- 
acters often  break  into  speech  without  warning,  and  one  incident 
is  thrown  on  top  of  another,  leaving  the  interval  entirely  to  the 
reader's  imagination  ;  thus  :  — 

The  King  sits  in  Dunferline  town 

Drinking  the  blud-red  wine  ; 
"  Oh,  whare  will  I  get  a  seely  skipper, 

To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine.** 

(4)  In  metre  a  preference  for  the  quatrain  with  alternate  lines 
of  four  and  three  accents.^ 

3.  General  Characteristics  of  Lyric  Poetry.  —  Perhaps  the 
qualities  that  we  chiefly  look  for  in  the  lyric  are  the 
following : , 

(1)  Sincerity.  —  The  lyric  may  be  grave  or  gay,  subdued  or 
passionate,  but  the  emotion,  whatever  it  be,  must  be  genuine, 
not  manufactured,  must  proceed  from  the  heart  of  the  poet, 
not  from  his  lips  only.  Nothing  can  be  more  offensive  than 
to  make  figures  of  speech  a  substitute  for  real  feeling,  and  to 
serve  up  exclamations,  apostrophes,  and  the  like,  without  the 
warmth  of  sentiment  that  alone  can  make  such  modes  of  ex- 
pression tolerable.     When  these  faults  occur,  it  is  not  hard 

1  For  examples  of  primitive  ballad  poetry,  see  Ward's  "  English  Poets," 
Vol.  I,  also  "A  Book  of  Old  English  Ballads"  by  George  Wharton 
Edwards. 


138  THE  SPECIES  OF  POETRY 

for  any  oile  with  the  least  power  of  discrimination  to  detect 
the  want  of  sincerity. 

But  literary  sincerity  goes  farther  than  this.  It  requires, 
and  does  actually  produce,  in  the  best  poetry,  a  perfect 
equivalence  between  the  sentiment  that  the  poet  feels  and 
his  images,  his  diction,  and  the  rhythmical  movement  of  his 
verse.  The  reader  appreciates  that  here  there  is  no  exagger- 
ation, no  overdrawn  emphasis,  no  straining  after  an  intensity 
that  is  not  felt,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  no  ineffectual  lapses 
into  mere  prose  and  unemotional  expression,  but  an  exact 
revelation  of  what  is  in  the  poet's  heart.  To  recognize  this 
sincerity  and  to  detect  the  want  of  it  is  not  always  possible 
after  the  first  reading  of  a  poem,  nor  can  it  be  learned  by  rule 
or  precept.  The  ear  and  the  mind  must  be  diligently  attuned 
to  what  is  genuine  in  order  to  discriminate  it  surely  from  what 
is  false.  There  are  doubtless  those  to  whom  street  songs  make 
more  appeal  than  the  songs  of  Herrick  or  Burns.  It  is  only 
by  familiarizing  ourselves  intimately  with  true  poetry,  and 
afterwards  by  testing  this  along  with  what  is  less  true,  that 
we  attain  to  some  sureness  in  passing  judgment. 

Sincerity  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  intensity.  Any 
degree  of  emotion,  however  tranquil,  or  however  light  and 
airy,  may  be  sincerely  expressed.  The  lyric  is  said  to  be 
insincere  when  the  poet  tries  to  manufacture  by  means  of 
figurative  language  an  emotion  that  he  does  not  feel. 

Compare  the  following :  Golden  Treasury,  I,  is  sincere  and 
simple;  XT,  sincere  and  playful;  CXXIX,  sincere  and  frivolous; 
XXXIX,  sincere  and  intense.  Golden  Treasury,  CCLXIX,  is  medi- 
tative, but  here,  in  contrast  with  the  preceding,  the  sincerity  is  not 
quite  convincing :  "  slumber's  chain,"  and  "  leaves  in  Wintry 
weather  "  are  rather  artificial  and  conventional,  and  the  "  banquet- 
hall  "  too  superficial  an  image  of  life  in  such  a  context. 

The  following  stanza  is  utterl}^  insincere ;  the  lines  are  cold  and 
uninspired,  while  the  writer  makes  an  eifort  to  seem  intense. 


LTBIC  POETRY  139 

Sensibility  how  charming 

Thou,  my  friend,  can  truly  tell, 
But  distress  with  horrors  arming 

Thou  hast  also  known  too  well. 

—  Burns,  "Sensibility." 

(2)  Universality.  —  The  second  quality  of  the  lyric  is  uni- 
versality. The  sentiment  expressed,  though  it  is  indeed  the 
personal  sentiment  of  the  poet,  must  not  be  based  on  what 
is  exceptional  or  peculiar  to  the  poet.  Suppose,  for  instance, 
that  Mozart  had  described  in  lyric  verse  the  ravishing  de- 
light in  musical  sound  felt  by  him  as  a  child;  it  would  in- 
deed be  interesting  as  biography,  but  not  valuable  as  poetry, 
because  the  experience  is  unnatural  and  exceptional.  So  too, 
purely  personal  occasions  of  sorrow  or  rejoicing,  if  they  stir 
the  poet  into  song,  must  carry  him  beyond  the  merely  personal 
and  suggest  conceptions  that  the  reader  may  make  his  own. 

Milton's  sonnet  "  On  His  Blindness,"  Golden  Treasury,  XCIV, 
illustrates  very  well  how  a  personal  emotion  may  be  universalized. 
It  is  not  a  querulous  or  self-centred  complaint ;  the  reflections  rise 
above  self,  and  take  a  broad  view  of  man's  relations  to  God.  We 
may  compare  with  Milton's  sonnet  the  following  lines  from  Swift, 
in  which  the  narrowly  personal  attitude  savors  of  egotism  and 
is  unpoetic. 

My  state  of  health  none  cares  to  learn ; 

My  life  is  here  no  soul's  concern. 

And  those  with  whom  I  here  converse 

Without  a  tear  will  tend  my  hearse. 

****** 

But  no  obliging  tender  friend 

To  help  at  my  approaching  end,  — 

My  life  is  now  a  burden  grown 

To  others,  ere  it  be  my  own. 

—  "  In  Sickness." 

(3)  Concentration.  —  By  this  quality  we  mean  the  opposite 
of  diffuseness.     Keen  emotion  focuses  the  mental  faculties 


140  THE  SPECIES  OF  POETRY 

and  increases  their  energy.  Hence  the  lyric  poet  is  cautious 
to  give  no  place  to  irrelevant  detail,  to  eliminate  long 
descriptions  and  indeed  every  phrase  that  does  not  contribute 
to  the  emotion  that  he  expresses,  or  that  betrays  a  wander- 
ing of  his  mind  from  the  inspiration  of  the  poem.  Farther, 
he  does  not  spread  out  his  thought  by  amplification,  as  the 
rhetorician  may  do,  but  flashes  out  image  after  image, 
turning  from  thought  to  thought,  attacking  his  subject  from 
this  side  and  that,  without  pausing  to  reiterate  or  explain  or 
enlarge  upon  his  view. 

The  intense  lyrics  will  naturally  be  more  concentrated  than 
those  of  a  quieter  character.  Nothing,  perhaps,  except  the  best 
passages  of  Shakespeare,  can  surpass  the  concentration  of  Shelley's 
"  West  Wind."  Yet,  even  Wordsworth's  "  Daisy  "  has  the  degree 
of  concentration  suited  to  the  mood  of  the  poem,  which  muses 
rather  than  raves. 

Byron  is  the  chief  oifender  against  concentration ;  he  has 
the  rhetorician's  instinct  for  amplification,  and  his  poetry  is, 
except  at  its  very  best,  highly  diluted.  See  for  example  the  con- 
cluding stanzas  of  "  Childe  Harold." 

My  task  is  done  —  my  song  hath  ceased  —  my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp,  and,  what  is  writ,  is  writ. 
******* 
Ye  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  the  sandal-schoon  and  scallop-shell. 

Pal  grave  has  remarked  in  the  Preface  to  the  Golden 
Treasury  (Second  Series)  that  "the  work  [of  the  latter- 
day  poets]  is  apt  to  be  less  concentrated  than  that  of  their 


LYRIC  POETRY  141 

best  predecessors,  classical  or  English."  The  tendency- 
is  to  sacrifice  vigorous  thinking  for  vague  impressions. 
Swinburne,  for  instance,  is  continually  betrayed  into  diffuse- 
ness  in  his  pursuit  of  word-music;  see  among  many  other 
examples  his  poem  entitled,  '^Itylus."^ 

(4)  Structural  Perfection.  —  With  regard  to  the  structure 
of  the  lyric,  it  has  been  well  said  that  "  it  must  be  perfect 
in  proportion  to  its  brevity."     We  expect, 

First,  a  sedulous  regard  for  unity.  The  lyric  should  be 
confined  to  one  main  thought  or  impression,  and  the  con- 
cluding lines  should  leave  a  sense  of  completeness. 

Secondly,  fluidity,  —  a  natural,  wavelike  lapsing  from  one 
thought  to  another,  from  one  to  another  phase  of  the  subject. 

Thirdly,  either  an  abrupt  intensity  in  the  first  line,  as, 

"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King !  '* 

or  sometimes  a  level  plane  of  quietness  without  perceptible 
rise  or  fall,  as  in  CoUins's  "  Ode  to  Evening "  (Golden 
Treasury,  CLXXXVI).  But  more  usually  in  lyrics  of  any 
length,  the  emotion  will  describe  the  curve,  rising  in  in- 
tensity to  the  penultimate  lines  and  then  subsiding  rapidly 
in  a  kind  of  epilogue,  as  in  Coleridge's  "  Ode  to  France." 

1  Mr.  Chesterton  has  humorously  described  a  modern  poet  of  the  new 
school  who  undertakes  to  express  what  Pope  says  of  man, 
"  A  being  darkly  wise  and  rudely  great." 
"  He  would  probably  produce,"  he  remarks,  "  something  like  this, 

A  creature 

Of  feature 

More  dark,  more  dark,  more  dark  than  skies. 

Yea,  darkly  wise,  yea,  darkly  wise, 

Darkly  wise  as  a  formless  fate. 

And  if  he  be  great,  then  rudely  great, 

Rudely  great  as  a  plow  that  plies, 

And  darkly  wise,  and  darkly  wise." 

This  is,  of  course,  travesty,  but  it  serves  to  illustrate  what  we  mean  by 
concentration. 


142  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

Fourthly,  a  perfect  adaptation  of  movement  and  tone  to 
the  thought  and  emotion.  The  impression  must  be  left,  not 
that  the  poet  has  first  conceived  an  emotional  sentiment  and 
then  found  language  and  metre  to  ornament  it,  but  that  the 
sentiment  is  itself  conceived  in  its  own  essential  movement 
and  language,  that  the  sentiment,  movement,  and  diction 
make  up  one  organic  whole.  This  perfection  we  find  in  the 
great  poets  at  their  greatest  moments  when  inspiration  and 
power  of  expression  are  both  working  with  completest 
efficiency. 

It  is  this  perfect  cooperation  of  sentiment,  diction,  and  move- 
ment in  producing  one  effect  that  lends  the  greatest  charm  to  the 
finest  poems  of  Horace,  as  "  Qiiis  desiderio."  Nearly  all  the  lyrics 
in  the  Golden  Treasury  will  illustrate  the  principle  of  unity  in 
idea  and  impression.  It  will  be  helpful  to  observe  what  gain  in 
this  respect  has  been  secured  by  Palgrave  for  Shelley's  poem  (No. 
CCCVII)  by  the  omission  of  the  following  lines  which  in  the  original 
formed  a  part  of  the  short  middle  stanza  found  in  the  "  Treasury." 

I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 
For  each  accustomed  visitor; 
"  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 
To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields ; 
Reflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow, 
Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow ; 
You  with  the  unpaid  bill.  Despair, 
You,  tiresome  verse-reciter.  Care, 
I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave, 
Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,  be  off  ! 
To-day  is  for  itself  enough  ; 
Hope,  in  pity  mock  not  woe 
With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go ; 
Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food, 
At  length  I  find  one  moment  good 
After  long  pain  —  with  all  your  love 
This  you  never  told  me  of." 


LYRIC  POETRY  143 

Then  follows  "  Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day,"  etc. 

In  the  foregoing  lines  precisely  this  "  radiant "  spirit  which 
is  the  great  charm  of  the  poem  is  changed  into  something 
lighter,  or  less  serious  in  tone.  The  effect  is  temporarily 
marred,  and  the  poem  becomes  much  more  perfect  by  their 
excision. 

For  the  best  examples  of  fluidity  we  should  turn  to  the 
Elizabethan  lyrics,  as  for  instance  Herrick's  "  Daffodils,"  which 
is  as  perfect  as  it  is  brief.  Of  the  longer  lyrics  a  good  example 
is  Gray's  "  Elegy."  Note  how  thought  surges  upon  thought, 
one  reflection  melts  away  into  another,  without  break  or  inter- 
ruption, and  without  artificial  weaving  together.  We  might 
compare  this  poem  with  Milton's  "  Lycidas,"  which  in  spite  of 
splendid  diction  is  notably  wanting  in  this  quality.  One  should 
not  overlook  as  an  instance  of  this  wavelike  flow  of  thought 
ebbing  away  to  a  close,  the  well-known  one-sentence  lyric  of 
Tennyson,  in  "  In  Memoriam,"  No.  LXXXV. 

For  adaptation,  we  should  do  well  to  compare  Browning's 
"  Prospice  "  and  Tennyson's  "  Crossing  the  Bar."  ^  The  lightness 
and  ease  of  Tennyson's  movement  and  the  softness  and  sweet- 
ness of  his  diction  are  not  merits  in  themselves  and  for  their 
own  sake,  but  because  they  are  perfectly  adapted  to  the  gentle 
lullaby  effect  of  the  poem.  Such  a  manner  and  movement  in 
the  poem  of  Browning  would  debase  to  mere  triviality  his  battling 
lines. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Would  you  class  the  following  as  emotional,  as  reflective,  or 
as  imaginative  lyrics?  Golden  Treasury,  CXCVII,  CCCLXVI, 
CCXXXVII,  CCIII,  LXXXIV,  CLXXXVII. 

2.  Compare  for  the  quality  of  perfect  sincerity  Golden  Treasury, 
CCXII,  LII,  CXXX,  CCXLV. 

3.  Compare  for  concentration  Golden  Treasury,  CCCXXXII, 
CLIV,  CCXXXIX. 

1  See  Golden  Treasury,  Second  Series. 


144  THE  SPECIES  OF  POETRY 

4.  Compare  for  unity  and  fluidity  Golden  Treasury,  CLXXX VI, 

cccxxx. 

5.  Compare    for    adaptation    Golden    Treasury,    CCXXXIX, 
CCXCIX. 

For  more  complete  exercises  on  lyric  poetry  see  suggestion  in 
Appendix  I. 


CHiLPTER   IV 
Minor  Forms  of  Poetry  and  Verse 

1-  Didactic  Poetry.  —  The  question  has  been  asked  whether 
poetry  can  ever  he  didactic,  or,  in  other  words,  whether 
such  a  species  of  poetry  can  be  admitted  even  in  theory. 
The  answer  seems  to  depend  entirely  on  one's  conception 
of  the  term.  If  by  didactic  poetry  we  understand  a  com- 
position whose  professed  object  is  to  instruct  or  to  com- 
municate the  principles  of  an  art  or  science  in  a  pleasing 
manner,  obviously  it  cannot  fall  under  the  category  of 
poetry  strictly  so  called.  Whatever  defiuition  of  poetry  we 
may  adopt,  all  will  agree  that  its  object  is  not  to  com  muni-* 
cate  information;  and  the  fact  of  this  being  done  in  a 
pleasing  manner  is  merely  an  additional  circumstance  that 
does  not  alter  the  essential  character  of  a  composition 
intended  for  purposes  of  instruction.  Who  would  call 
Horace's  "  Ars  Poetica  "  a  poem,  except  in  scattered  passages 
where  the  poet  leaves  instruction  for  a  higher  plane  ?  We 
shall  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  the  same  of  Pope*s  "Art 
of  Criticism,"  and  the  like,  if  we  will  bear  in  mind  that 
cleverness  of  phrase  and  felicity  of  diction,  however  interests 
ing  and  captivating,  are  not  the  stuff  of  which  true  poetry 
is  made. 

But  we  may  conceive  didactic  poetry  in  a  way  that  will 
not  forbid  it  a  place  among  the  species  of  poetry.  A  poet 
-expresses  the  emotional  beauty  he  beholds  in  a  narrative, 
for  instance,  and  we  call  it  narrative  poetry ;  in  like  manner, 
if  a  poet  has  the  ^ulty  of  beholding  the  emotional  beauty, 

145 


146  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

grandeur,  sublimity,  of  a  system  of  philosophy  or  some  great 
fabric  of  knowledge  or  art,  and  can  give  aesthetic  expression 
to  what  he  beholds,  we  should  perhaps  be  justified  in  calling 
such  a  poem  didactic,  though  it  is  only  by  an  extension 
of  the  meaning  of  the  adjective.  This  at  all  events  is 
the  only  legitimate  use  of  the  term  as  applied  to  poetry. 
"  It  [didactic  poetry]  has  become  in  our  days  the  poetical 
expression  of  the  joy  which  is  felt  by  an  artistic  soul  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  system  of  reasoned  knowledge. 
His  object  is  science  seen  on  its  aesthetic  side."  ^ 
The  didactic  poem,  therefore,  will  be 

(1)  distinctly  emotional,  and  not  literally  didactic  or 
instructive  in  manner. 

(2)  distinctly  concrete  and  imaginative,  though  hovering 
in  the  midst  of  general  and  abstract  ideas. 

Probably  Vergil's  Georgics  come  near  to  fulfilling  the  ideal 
of  a  didactic  poem.  One  feels  that  though  he  may  attempt  to 
instruct,  yet  his  admiration  of  and  delight  in  his  subject  keeps 
him  safely  removed  from  the  instructor's  attitude,  or  rather 
merges  it  in  that  of  the  glowing  enthusiast.  Note  his  copious- 
ness of  imaginative  suggestion  in  the  way  of  description,  meta- 
phors, similes  (especially  in  Georgic  IV)  and  the  felicity  of  the 
episode  of  the  old  man  of  Tarentum  who  spends  delightful  days 
in  his  modest  garden  (IV,  11.  116-145). 

Hesiod's  "  Works  and  Days  "  and  Lucretius'  "  De  Rerum  Na- 
tura  "  are  other  standard  examples  of  didactic  poetry. 

2.  Satire.  —  Satire  is  the  literary  expression  of  ridicule 
at  what  is  vicious  or  unseemly  in  human  character.  Humor, 
therefore,  is  an  essential  feature ;  censure  without  humor  is 
not  satire,  but  invective.  Satire  must  also  be  distinguished 
from  irony;  the  latter,  which  consists  in  using  words  to 
convey  a  meaning  opposite  to  their  natural  sense,  is  one 
of  the  common  devices  employed  by  satire  for  purposes  of 

1  J.  Verest,  S.  J.,  "  Manuel  de  Litterature,"  p.  609. 


MINOR  FORMS   OF  POETRY  AND    VERSE        147 

ridicule ;  but  satire  embraces  many  other  forms  of  wit  be- 
sides irony. 

Satire  should,  properly  speaking,  be  regarded  as  a  quality 
of  literature  rather  than  as  a  distinct  species  of  poetry.  As 
such  it  may  characterize  any  kind  of  poetical  production, 
the  drama,  the  narrative,  or  the  lyric.  But,  as  a  branch 
of  poetry,  it  is  customary  to  apply  the  term  specifically 
to  shorter  compositions,  more  or  less  didactic  in  character, 
in  which  the  satirical  purpose  obscures  or  excludes  every 
other.  Thus  we  may  say  that  Sheridan's  "Rivals"  is 
satirical ;  and  that  Byron's  "  English  Bards  "  is  a  satire. 

As  the  essence  of  satire  is  ridicule  of  vice  and  folly,  we 
may  gather  that  its  distinguishing  elements  are  chiefly  the 
following :  — 

(1)  Truth,  i.e.  the  truth  of  fiction,  of  probability.  Human 
life  must  be  accurately  portrayed,  though  in  caricature. 
Precisely  as  in  caricature,  the  essential  resemblance  must 
be  kept,  though  certain  traits  may  be  exaggerated  or  dis- 
torted. The  poet  must  invest  his  characters  with  an  air 
of  reality.  If  instead  of  this  he  allows  them  to  become 
mere  monsters  of  vice  or  mere  puppets  dressed  in  the 
clothes  of  folly,  the  chief  interest  of  the  poem  disappears. 
Butler's  "Hudibras,"  an  ideal  satire  in  many  respects,  fails 
in  this,  and  probably  for  this  reasor^  more,  than  any  other 
it  is  hardly  more  than  a  name  in  English  literature  to-day. 

(2)  Brief  Suggestiveness  in  Description.  —  Obviously  the 
satire,  in  realizing  concreteness,  must  rely  upon  frequent 
descriptions  both  of  characters  and  situations.  The  wit  of 
the  piece  requires  that  these  should  be  brief,  quick,  pointed, 
since  much  of  the  effectiveness  of  humor  of  every  kind 
resides  in  suggestiveness.  No  satirist  exceeds  Juvenal 
in  this  respect. 

(3)  Effective  Raillery.  —  The  raillery  may  be  genial  and 
playful  as  in  Horace,  or  bitter  and  cynical  as  in  Juvenal » 


148  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

this  division  raay  be  adopted  as  classifying  all  satirists  to 
our  own  time.  Since  the  twelfth  century,  allegory  has  fre- 
quently been  the  source  of  the  satirist's  humor,  as  in  "  Piers 
Plowman,"  and  "  The  Beast's  Confession  "  ;  others  have  relied 
for  effectiveness  on  the  pungency  of  epigram,  as  Pope  in 
"The  Dunciad";  others  string  their  theme  about  a  thread 
of  narrative,  as  in  Butler's  "  Hudibras  "  ;  others  again  make 
use  of  dialogue  and  thus  give  a  quasi-dramatic  turn  to  the 
composition,  as  Pope  in  the  "  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot." 

3.  The  Pastoral.  —  The  pastoral  quality  in  poetry  may 
be  said,  like  the  satirical,  to  be  primarily  an  attribute  of 
poetry  in  general,  so  that  we  may  speak  of  the  pastoral 
narrative,  as  Sidney's  "Arcadia,"  the  pastoral  drama,  as 
Fletcher's  "Faithful  Shepherdess,"  the  pastoral " elegy,  as 
Milton's  "  Ly cidas,"  and  the  pastoral  lyric,  as  many  lyrics  of 
Herrick.  However,  the  term  is  used  to  designate  a  type  of 
poem  of  moderate  length,  intermediate  between  the  narrative 
and  the  lyric,  in  which  rural  scenes  and  episodes,  and  dia- 
logue between  rustic  characters,  are  the  chief  material. 

The  distinguishing  purpose  of  pastoral  poetry  is  to  rep- 
resent not  the  realities  of  rural  life,  but  chiefly  these  two 
more  or  less  fanciful  features,  its  Arcadian  simplicity  and 
its  idyllic  tranquillity. 

Theocritus,  the  chief  exemplar  of  pastoral  poetry,  aimed  at  a 
certain  degree  of  realism.  He  attempted  to  make  his  situations, 
episodes,  and  style  of  language  natural  and  conformable  to  the 
rustic  character  of  his  theme.  Vergil,  his  imitator,  sublimated  the 
diction  of  the  pastoral  into  a  dignity  and  delicacy  which  impart 
to  it  an  irresistible  charm,  but  not  the  charm  to  be  expected  from 
shepherd-boys.  Finally,  subsequent  imitators,  as,  for  instance,  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  in  his  "  Arcadia,"  dressed  out  their  rustics  in  court 
attire,  investing  them  not  only  with  artificial  language  but  with 
artificial  aspirations,  sentiments,  and  manners,  so  as  to  leave  hardly 
anything  bucolic  except  the  setting.  Hence  we  have  the  two 
styles  of  pastoral  poetry,  the  natural  and  the  artificial.     Of  thQ 


MINOR  FORMS   OF  POETRY  AND    VERSE        149 

former,  the  best  in  English  are  Spenser's  "  Shepheardes  Calendar  " 
and  Gay's  "Shepherd's  Week";  of  the  latter,  the  pastorals  of  Pope 
and  the  seventeenth  century  imitators  of  Spenser. ^ 

4.  Dramatic  Lyrics  and  Dramatic  Narratives.  —  These  forms, 
as  tlie  names  suggest,  are  narratives  and  lyrics  which  the 
writer  puts  upon  the  lips  of  some  character  conceived  by 
him.  The  dramatic  narrative  is  told  from  a  particular  and 
distinctive  point  of  view,  that  is,  as  interpreted  by  some 
personage  whose  relation  to  the  narrative  notably  modifies 
the  telling  of  it.  The  dramatic  lyric  in  like  manner  expresses 
a  personal  emotion,  personal,  that  is,  not  to  the  writer  but  to 
a  character  created  by  the  writer.  Hence  in  both  we  find 
a  double  interest,  not  only  that  which  attaches  to  the  lyric 
and  the  narrative  proper,  but  the  interest  that  it  is  the 
gift  of  the  creative  imagination  to  awaken,  the  interest 
that  proceeds  from  the  interpretation  of  character. 

The  chief  exponent  of  these  forms  is  Robert  Browning.  "  Abt 
Vogler,"  "  Andrea  del  Sarto,"  "  Master  Hughes  of  Saxe-Gotha," 
"  Saul,"  and  "  Rabbi  ben  Ezra,"  are  among  the  most  notable  in- 
stances of  the  dramatic  lyric.  "  The  Ring  and  the  Book  "  stands 
for  the  typical  dramatic  narrative,  being  a  series  of  different  versions 
of  the  same  narrative  told  by  the  persons  involved  in  it. 

How  far  these  minor  forms  may  be  called  poetry,  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  word,  may  be  often  difficult  to  decide. 
Satire,  if  it  rises  beyond  the  criticism  of  mere  local  or 
ephemeral  trifles,  into  the  large  and  more  universal  aspects 
of  life,  may  be  ranked  as  true  poetry,  inasmuch  as  scorn 
of  vice   is  virtually   equivalent  to  admiration   of  what   is 

1  The  terms  "  Eclogue  "  and  **  Bucolic  "  are  sometimes  used  vaguely  as 
synonymous  with  the  pastoral.  Some  would  confine  the  term  "  Eclogue  " 
to  pastorals  including  dialogue ;  "  Bucolics  "  to  those  describing  the  distinc- 
tive operations  of  country  life,  as  Vergil's  Georgics.  In  later  times  "  Idyll  " 
has  come  to  be  used  as  an  unpretentious  designation  for  almost  any  short 
poem  of  a  picturesque  character,  as  "  The  Idylls  of  the  King." 


150  THE  SPECIES   OF  POETRY 

noble.  Of  the  dramatic  pieces  of  Robert  Browning  the 
same  may  be  said  in  certain  cases.  Such  poems  as  "  In 
the  Laboratory  "  and  "  The  Spanish  Cloister  "  are  obviously 
meant  to  hold  up  to  scorn  certain  sordid  and  vicious 
passions,  and,  though  not  satirical,  have  the  same  relation  to 
poetry  that  satire  has.  On  the  other  hand,  "  Bishop  Blough- 
ram's  Apology "  and  "  The  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb  in  St. 
Praxed's  Church  "  appear  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
"studies,"  —  attempts  to  realize  intimately  certain  extraor- 
dinary mental  attitudes.  One  can  readily  understand  that 
verse  with  its  compression  and  its  power  of  suggestion  would 
be  preferred  as  a  vehicle  for  such  "  studies  "  —  but  interest- 
ing as  they  may  be  in  subtle  penetration  of  hidden  motives 
and  their  revelation  of  the  mysterious  workings  of  the  heart, 
one  can  see  no  more  reason  for  calling  them  poetry  in  the 
highest  sense  than  if  they  were  written  in  prose.  It  is  the 
function  of  poetry  not  to  excite  curiosity  and  not  merely  to 
present  problems,  whether  psychological  or  scientific,  but  to 
represent  through  the  imagination  adequate  grounds  for 
the  noble  emotions. 


PART  THREE 


VERSIFICATION 

The  music  of  verse,  which  we  are  now  to  consider  in 
detail,  is  the  most  valuable  of  all  the  resources  of  expression 
placed  at  the  command  of  the  poet.  But  it  is  also  the  most 
subtle  and  defiant  of  analysis.  It  is  impossible  to  point 
out  by  rule  or  precept  how  it  may  be  produced,  or  even  to 
explain  fully  how  it  has  been  produced  in  a  given  case. 
All  that  can  be  attempted  is  to  indicate  the  elements  which 
enter  into  the  composition  of  verse-music,  that  by  so  doing 
the  student  may  be  awakened  to  a  keener  consciousness  of 
its  presence  and  power  in  actual  poetry. 

These  elements  may  be  grouped  into  two  classes.  The 
first  includes  all  that  pertains  to  the  measurement  of  verse, 
its  division  into  equal  or  equivalent  combinations  of 
syllables,  called  feet,  lines,  stanzas.  This  recurrent  rhythm 
of  poetry  is  known  as  Metre,  and  will  be  considered  in  the 
first  chapter  following. 

The  second  class  deals  with  the  agreeable  succession  of 
vowels  and  consonants,  which  in  some  mysterious  way 
evoke  emotions  by  their  sweetness  or  harshness,  and  their 
relation  to  other  vowels  and  consonants  near  them.  We 
may  designate  this  as  the  Melody  of  verse,  and  its  elemen- 
tary forms  will  be  the  subject  of  the  second  chapter. 


151 


CHAPTER  I 

Metre 

I.   Accent 

The  difference  between  verse  and  prose  may  be  seen  by- 
comparing  the  following  lines  :  — 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

In  the  beginning  God  created  heaven  and  earth. 

We  observe  that  in  the  first  line,  a  certain  stress  falls  on 
every  second  syllable,  and  that  consequently  we  may  divide 
the  line  into  five  groups,  each  consisting  of  an  unstressed, 
followed  by  a  stressed,  syllable :  — 

W        \J  KJ  \y      V^  

The  cur  |  few  tolls  |  the  knell  |  of  par  |  ting  day. 

In  the  second  line  there  is  no  such  recurrence,  —  the 
stresses  are  placed  irregularly,  and  the  syllables  do  not 
fall  into  regular  groups.  The  recurrence  of  similar  verse- 
factors,  as  seen  in  the  first  line,  is  what  we  call  "  me^re." 

1.  Word-accent.  —  Every  word,  and  every  syllable  of  a 
word,  must,  of  course,  receive  some  degree  of  force  in  utter- 
ance ;  word-accent  is  that  relatively  greater  force  which  is 
put  upon  one  syllable  over  another,  as  sorroiv,  sublime.  In 
words  of  more  than  two  syllables  we  find  also  a  secondary 
accent  on  syllables  separated  one  or  more  places  from  the 
principal  accent,  as  recollect,  demonstration,  cumulative, 
authorization.     Syllables  without  either  primary  or  second- 

152 


METRE  153 

ary  accent  are  called  unaccented.     Monosyllables  may,  for 
convenience,  be  regarded  as  single  accented  syllables. 

2.  Verse-stress  is  the  ictus  placed  upon  certain  syllables 
recurring  at  regular  intervals  in  a  verse  of  poetry,  and  thus 
determining  the  rhythm  of  the  verse,  as 

Absent  |  thee  from  |  feli  |  city  |  awhile. 

In  this  line  the  verse-stress  is  precisely  identical  with  the 

word-accent.     If  we  examine  the  following  lines,  we  shall 

find  that  this  is  not  always  the  case. 

\j        \j    \j    \j      —  \j     \j    \j  \j     

Oh !  thy  lu  |  minous  face,  |  thine  impe  |  rious  eyes.  — 

And   the  light  |  thereof  hurled  |  and  the  noise  |  thereof 

rolled. 
In  the  first  of  these  two  lines,  the  secondary  accent  on  the 
last  syllable  of  "  luminous"  receives  no  verse-stress,  and  in  the 
second  line  the  entire  word  "  thereof ''  is  without  verse-stress. 

3.  Rules.  —  The  question,  therefore,  arises  how  far  these 
two  —  word-accent  and  verse-stress  —  may  or  must  coincide 
in  a  verse  of  poetry.  The  laws  may  be  briefly  formulated  as 
follows :  — 

(a)  The  verse-stress  never  falls  on  an  unaccented  syllable ; 
nor  on  a  secondary  accent,  unless  the  primary  accent  of  the 
same  word  is  also  stressed. 

(6)  On  the  other  hand,  the  verse-stress  does  not  necessa- 
rily fall  on  every  accented  syllable ;  that  is,  accented  syllables 
may  be  unstressed  in  the  verse. 

(c)  Monosyllables,  since  we  regard  them  as  accented  syllsr 
bles,  may  receive  verse-stress. 

Or,  still  more  simply  :  — 

(a)  Accented  syllables,  including  monosyllables,  are  com- 
mon ;  that  is,  stressed  or  unstressed. 

(6)  Unaccented  syllables  are  unstressed. 


154  VERSIFICATION 

Sometimes,  by  way  of  exception  to  the  second  of  these  rules,  the 
verse-stress  is  found  to  fall,  not  on  the  word-accent,  but  on  the 
syllable  adjoining  it.     Thus  :  — 

W     K^         W    \J    Vy KJ       

In  pro  I  fuse  strains  |  of  un  |  preme  |  dita  |  ted  art. 

—  in  the  word  "  profuse,"  the  verse-stress  is  on  the  first  syllable, 
the  word-accent  on  the  second.  In  this  case  both  syllables  should 
be  pronounced  with  nearly  equal  stress,  and  so  the  accent  may 
be  said  to  hover  over  the  two  syllables ;  whence  we  call  it  "  the 
hovering  accent." 
Similarly :  — 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.  — 

That  on  the  stretched /ore^w^er  of  all  time. — 

II.   The  Metrical  Foot  and  Verse 

1.  The  Foot.  —  In  general  a  metrical  foot  is  any  regular, 
single  group  of  stressed  and  unstressed  syllables.  In  each 
normal  foot  of  English  poetry  we  find  one  stressed,  and  one 
or  two  unstressed,  syllables. 

The  principal  feet  in  use  are :  — 

1.  The  Iambus   (^— ) 

2.  The  Anapest  (ww_) 

3.  The  Trochee  (_w) 

4.  The  Dactyl     (— ww) 

2.  The  Verse. — A  verse  is  a  line  of  poetry  made  up 
usually  of  several  feet,  but  sometimes  containing  one  only. 
A  verse  consisting  of  one  foot  is  called  a  monometer ;  of  two 
feet,  a  dimeter ;  of  three,  a  trimeter ;  of  four,  a  tetrameter  ; 
of  five,  a  pentameter ;  of  six,  a  hexameter. 

Hence  an  iambic  (anapest ic,  trochaic,  dactylic)  monom- 
eter (dimeter,  etc.)  is  the  name  given  to  a  verse  of  one 
or  two  iambi  (anapests,  etc.).  The  iambic  hexameter  is 
also  called   an  "Alexandrine,"  from   the  twelfth   century 


METRE  155 

romance  concerning  Alexander  the  Great,  written  in  this 
measure.  The  iambic  pentameter  is  known  as  the  "  heroic  " 
measure,  being  the  metre  of  the  English  epic. 

(a)  Pure  Iambic  Verses :  — 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
Which  Uke  a  wounded  snake  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon. 

With  ravish'd  ears 
The  Monarch  hears. 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  the  nod. 

(b)  Pure  Anapestic  Verses :  — 

I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 
I  must  finish  my  journey  alone. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps. 

To  a  precipice  goes, 
Where  a  leap  from  above 
Would  soon  finish  his  woes. 

(c)  Pure  Trochaic  Verses :  — 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December. 
Holy,  holy,  holy,  all  the  Saints  adore  Thee. 
Spake  full  well  in  language  quaint  and  olden. 
Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us. 
Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken. 

(d)  Pure  Dactylic  Verses  :  — 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 

Here  we  go  off  on  the  "  London  and  Birmingham,'* 
Bidding  adieu  to  the  foggy  metropolis. 

Still  it  kept  flowing  and  flowing,  and  other  streams  ran  to  its 
bosom. 


156  VERSIFICATION 

3.  Metrical  Variations.  —  We  have  thus  far  considered  the 
typical  measures  of  English  verse,  in  which  the  entire  line 
is  made  up  of  a  regular  succession  of  iambi  or  anapests  or 
trochees  or  dactyls.  But  English  verse  does  not  adhere  rigidly 
to  a  given  type.  Many  variations  are  permitted  which  help 
to  give  that  flexible,  mobile  quality  which  belongs  to  all 
good  v^rse. 

The  chief  of  these  variations  are  the  following  :  — 

Substitution.  —  An  anapestic  foot  frequently  takes  the 
place  of  an  iambus,  and  vice  versa.  The  same  interchange 
occurs  between  trochees  and  dactyls. 

Kj  —  y        —         \J     \j    —  WW       

My  thoughts  ]  still  cling  ]  to  the  moul  \  dering  past. 

\J        W  W  W  W  WW  —  w 

Solemnly  |  answered     the  |  sea,     and  \  mingled    its  |  roar     with 
w       —  w 
the  I  dirges. 

Inversion.  — Feet  are  sometimes  inverted  ;  that  is,  a  trochee 
takes  the  place  of  an  iambus,  a  dactyl  of  an  anapest,  and 
vice  versa.  This  occurs  very  frequently  at  the  beginning 
of  the  line^  and  in  nearly  every  case  inversion  is  preceded 
by  at  least  a  slight  pause  in  the  sense. 

W  —  W  W      —  W      

Through  cav  ]  erns  meas  |  ureless  |  to  man, 

WW    —        w      

Down  to  I  a  sun  I  less  sea. 


This  I  deli  |  cious  place 

w  w     w       w w  _ 

For  us  1  too  large,  [  where  thy  |  abun  j  dance  wants 

W W  W    WW  

Parta  |  kers,  and,  |  uncropt,  |  falls  to  \  the  ground. 


Catalexis.  —  The  unstressed  syllable  (or  syllables)  begin- 
ning an  iambic  (or  anapestic)  verse  may  be  omitted ;  simi- 
larly the  unstressed  syllable  (or  syllables)  at  the  end  of  a 


METRE  157 

trochaic  (or  dactylic)  verse.     The  verse  is  then  said  to  be 
Catalectic. 

\j  \j         —  \j  \j 

Take  her  up  |  tenderly, 

WW  — 

Lift  her  with  |  care.  A 

\j      — 

A  Who  I  would  be 
\j  —  \j  — 
A  mer  |  man  bold, 

A  Sit  I  ting  alone, 

\j  \j 

A  Sing  I  ing  alone, 

—     \j     ^    — 
A  Un  I  der  the  sea. 

\j  \j        —    \j     —  \j        —      w      \j      \j 

Comrades,  |  leave   me  |  here  a  |  little,  |  while   as  |  yet    'tis  |  early 

morn.  A 

Hypermeter.  —  An  unstressed  syllable  may  be  added  to  the 
beginning  of  a  trochaic  or  the  end  of  an  iambic  line.  The 
verse  is  then  called  hypermetric. 

\J       \J  \J  WW  w  w 

When  the  hounds  |  of  Spring  |  are  on  Win  |  ter's  tra  i  ces. 


Many  a  |  green  isle  |  needs  must  |  be 

WW        —        w         —  w        w     

In  the':  deep  w^ide  |  sea  of  |  mise  |  ry. 


Pause.  —  In  lyric  poetry,  and  especially  in  the  song,  a 
pause  occasionally  takes  the  place  of  a  short  or  unstressed 
syllable  in  a  line.     As 

W       W       

Break,  |  A  Break,  |  A  Break, 

WW      w       __  w   

On  thy  cold  |  grey  stones,  |  O  Sea. 

These  variations  must  not  be  so  used  as  to  obscure  the 
general  movement  of  the  verse;  but  for  the  rest,  the  ear 


158  VERSIFICATION 

must  be  the  arbiter  whether  the  variation  is  allowable  in 
particular  cases. 

4.  Characteristic  Effects  of  Various  Feet  and  Metrical  Varia- 
tions. —  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  a  particular  metre  is 
adopted  arbitrarily,  or  that  departures  from  the  typical 
metre  are  forced  upon  the  poet  by  exigencies  of  language  or 
expression.  A  writer  uses  this  or  that  form  of  verse,  not  as 
if  it  were  preferable  in  itself,  but  simply  because  it  is  better 
adapted  to  express  his  subject  as  he  conceives  it.  This  is 
also  true  of  the  manner  in  which  he  handles  his  verse.  If 
his  lines  are  regular,  it  is  because  he  aims  at  a  particular 
effect  thereby ;  if  he  uses  inversions  or  substitutions  or  the 
like,  it  is  because  these  too  are  in  accord  with  his  feeling. 
It  is  not  possible  to  classify  every  effect  wrought  out  by  the 
poet,  but  some  general  observations  may  be  made  which  will 
be  a  guide  to  us  in  the  further  study  of  metrical  effects. 

First.  — Anapestic  and  dactylic  lines,  containing  as  they  do 
a  large  proportion  of  unaccented  syllables,  have  a  lighter  and 
more  rapid  movement  than  iambic  and  trochaic  lines.  Hence 
they  are  suited  to  fervid  emotion,  quick  action,  flowing  melody. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 

*  Good  speed ! '  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew ; 

*  Speed ! '  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward. 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  I 
Charge  for  the  guns,"  he  said : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


METRE  159 

These  examples  illustrate  the  rapidity  of  the  anapestic  and  dac- 
tylic metres,  but  a  great  variety  of  musical  effects  may  be  elicited 
from  them.  Note  how,  in  the  following  lines,  the  rapidity  is  dimin- 
ished by  the  number  of  long  syllables  and  by  the  verse-pauses,  and 
thus  lightness  is  converted  into  languor.  Conceive  the  same  lines 
in  an  iambic  rhythm,  and  see  how  the  effect  would  be  lost,  the 
languor  unduly  converted  into  strength. 

Let  your  hands  meet  round  the  weight  of  my  head, 
Lift  ye  my  feet  as  the  feet  of  the  dead, 
For  the  flesh  of  my  body  is  molten,  the  limbs  of  it  molten  as  lead. 

So,  too,  the  dactyls  and  anapests  in  the  following  add  by  their 
easy  flow  a  softness  to  the  pathos  : 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care, 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young  and  so  fair. 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 
Can  never  come  back  to  me. 

Secondly. — We  have  seen  the  difference  in  musical  effect 
between  trisyllabic  and  dissyllabic  feet,  i.e.  anapests  or 
dactyls  as  contrasted  with  iambi  or  trochees.  Let  us  now 
compare  metres  consisting  of  feet  beginning  with  unstressed 
syllables  (iambi  and  anapests)  with  those  consisting  of  feet 
beginning  with  stressed  syllables  (trochees  and  dactyls). 
The  former  measure  we  may  call  by  the  general  name  of  the 
iambic  movement,  the  latter  the  trochaic  movement.  Their 
characters  are  quite  distinct.  The  former  creates  the  sense 
of  an  upward  movement,  and  the  general  impression  tends  to 
be  grave  and  conclusive.  The  latter  suggests  a  downward 
movement,  and  gives  rather  the  impression  of  lightness 
and  expectancy.  This,  however,  is  frequently  modified 
and  altered  by  countless  other  influences. 


160  VERSIFICATION 

Observe,  for  instance,  how  masculine  and  decisive  is  the 
rhythm  in  Scott's  "  Marmion  "  as  compared  with  Longfellow's 
"  Hiawatha  "  :  — 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell. 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 
For  still  the  Scots  around  their  King, 
Unbroken  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed, 
Front,  flank  and  rear  the  squadrons  sweep, 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 
That  fought  around  their  King. 

Then  began  the  deadly  conflict. 
Hand  to  hand  among  the  mountains  ; 
From  his  eyry  screamed  the  eagle, 
The  Keneu,  the  great  war-eagle. 
Sat  upon  the  crags  around  them, 
Wheeling  flapped  his  wings  above  them. 
Like  a  tall  tree  in  the  tempest 
Bent  and  lashed  the  giant  bulrush  ; 
And  in  masses  huge  and  heavy 
Crashing  fell  the  fatal  Wawbeek. 

It  should  be  observed  that  many  lines  are  so  constructed  that 

it  is  possible  to  scan  them  either  as  trochaic  or  as  iambic.     But  this 

is  by  no  means  an  indifferent  matter,  as  the  two  movements  are  so 

unlike.     In  determining,  we  are  to  bear  in  mind  that  by  far  the 

larger  part  of  English  verse  is  iambic,  and  so  a  presumption  exists 

that  doubtful  lines  are  of  this  measure ;  but  the  metre  of  the  whole 

poem  must  be  studied  and  its  general  character  considered  before 

we  can  rightly  settle  this  point.     Let  us  take  for  example  Shelley's 

"  Skylark."    The  first  line  may  easily  be  taken  for  a  regular  trochaic 

trimeter :  — 

—    \j      —        \j  —  \j 

Hail  to  I  thee,  blithe  |  spirit. 

Yet  the  whole  rhythm  of  the  poem  is  undoubtedly  iambic.     The 
long  basic  lines  at  the  ends  of  the  stanzas  which  are  so  important 


METRE  161 

in  the  rhythmical  effect  are  all  carefully  constructed  iambi ;  and  in 
many  of  the  short  lines  the  emphatic  first  word  suggests  a  pause 
equivalent  to  the  omitted  short  syllable  of  an  inverted  iambus. 
We  conclude,  therefore,  that  the  poem  should  be  scanned  as  iambic 
measure,  thus :  — 

—  v^     \J       —       w 

A  Hail !    I  to  thee,  |  blithe  spi  |  rit  1 

\j    \j         

A  Bird  I  thou  ne  |  ver  |  wert, 

A  That  I  from  heaven,  |  or  near  |  it 

—       \j      \j       

A  Pour  I  est  thy  |  full  heart 

In  pro  j  fuse  strains  |  of  un  |  premed  |  ita  |  ted  art. 

Thirdly.  —  Perfect  regularity  of  metre  gives  the  character 
of  steadiness,  suggests  quiet,  unobtrusive  emotion,  or  some- 
times lends  a  sort  of  formal  dignity  to  the  verse.  The 
multiplication  of  short  syllables,  as  the  substitution  of  the 
anapest  for  the  iambus,  suggests  lightness  or  grace,  or  some- 
times gives  emphasis.  An  inverted  foot,  as  the  substitution  of 
a  trochee  for  an  iambus,  particularly  in  the  middle  of  a  line, 
marks  emphasis  or  lends  some  additional  stress  of  emotion. 
But  note  that  in  dramatic  poetry  changes  in  the  metre  are 
introduced  frequently  for  the  mere  purpose  of  making  the 
movement  more  easy  and  conversational. 

Part  of  the  reposeful  movement  of  Gray's  "  Elegy  "  is  due  to 
the  regularity  of  the  metre. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 

The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  |  the  glim  |  mering  land  \  scape  on  |  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 


162  VERSIFICATION 

Save  ivhere  \  the  bee  |  tie  wheels  |  his  droii  |  ing  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds. 
In  these  stanzas  we  note  only  two  variations  from  type,  the 
first,  in  the  fifth  line,  "glimmering,"  which' is  delicately  onomato- 
poeic ;  the  second,  in  the  seventh  line,  where  a  light  emphasis  is 
given  to  "  save  "  by  the  inversion,  in  order  to  prepare  for  the 
parallel  "  save  that "  in  the  following  stanza. 

Rapidity  is  suggested  by  the  additional  unaccented  syllable  in 

w  W  —  \J  \J  \J     \J     

And  fiash  |  ing  round  |  and  round  |  and  wheeled  |  in  an  arch. 

W     WW         w  \J         \J  

The  ca  \  taracts  blow  \  their  trum  |  pets  from  |  the  steep. 

But  the  lightness  is  converted  unto  unwieldiness  by  the  length 
of  the  unaccented  syllables  in  Milton's  line 

—  that  sea-beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  His  works 

w W     \J        \J       \J     \J  

Great  |  ed  hu  |  gest  that  swim  \  the  o  |  cean  stream. 
Emphasis  is  apparent  in  the  following  inversions  :  — 
Go  tell  the  prince ;  run  to  the  Capulets. 
A  hermit  who  had  prayed,  laboured  and  prayed. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Scan  the  following :  (a)  Golden  Treasury,  CI  I,  CLIV, 
CCVI,   and  Tennyson's  "  Dying  Swan." 

(6)    Golden  Treasury,  CLI,  CLIX,  CLXXVIII. 

(c)  Golden  Treasury,  CCXXXIX,  CCXXXIV,  CLXXX,  CIII, 
CCCXXXIV. 

{d)  Tennyson's  "  Sweet  and  Low,"  "  The  Merman,"  "  Maud," 
V,  XII,  XVII. 

2.  Indicate  the  metre  and  the  musical  effect  it  produces  in  the 
following :  Tennyson's  "  The  Revenge,"  Collins's  "  Ode  to  the 
Passions." 

3.  Compare  the  metres  and  the  effects  produced  by  them  in 
the  following  :  Tennyson's  "  Locksley  Hall "  and  "  In  Memoriam  " ; 
Foe's  "  Raven  "  and  "  UUalurae." 


METRE  163 

III.  C^suRA   AND  Emphasis 

1.  The  Caesura.  —  The  caesura  or  caesural  pause  occurs  in 
English  poetry  whenever  there  is  a  natural  pause  in  the 
sense,  that  is,  where  good  judgment  requires  a  pause  in 
reading.  We  have  every  variety  in  the  length  of  the  caesura, 
but  for  convenience  we  may  distinguish  three,  —  the  pause 
of  the  period,  the  pause  of  the  comma,  and  the  pause  less 
than  that  of  the  comma. 

The  caesura  may  occur  at  the  end  of  the  line,  or  at  any 
place  within  it,  but  rarely,  and  only  for  special  effects,  after 
the  first  syllable  or  before  the  last.  When  there  is  a  distinct 
caesura  at  the  end,  the  line  is  said  to  be  "  end-stopped  " ;  when 
there  is  no  caesura  at  the  end,  the  line  is  said  to  be  "  en- 
jambed." 

Note  the  caesuras  of  various  lengths,  and  a  convenient  way  of 
indicating  them,  in  the  following  :  — 

The  face  of  nature  (  we  no  more  survey,  || 
All  glares  alike  |  without  distinction  gay :  ||| 
But  true  expression  [|  like  the  unchanging  sun|| 
Clears  and  improves  |  whate'er  it  lights  upon.||| 

The  rhythm  of  blank  verse  is  aided  by  varying  the  caesura, 
both  in  its  position  and  its  length.  If  every  line  is  end-stopped, 
an  unpleasant  monotony  ensues,  as  if  they  were  moulded  separately 
and  laid  together  block  upon  block.  And  if  the  caesura  occurs 
uniformly  at  or  near  the  middle  of  the  line,  a  seesaw  rhythm 
results  between  the  two  halves.  Both  of  these  defects  are 
noticeable  in  the  preceding  example.  Contrast  the  following 
lines  from  Tennyson's  '*  Ulysses  "  :  — 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,(| 

By  this  still  hearth,  ||  among  these  barren  crags,  || 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,|  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  |  unto  a  savage  race  || 

That  hoard,  (  and  sleep,  [  and  feed,  ||  and  know  not  me-m 


164  VERSIFICATION 

2.  Emphasis.  —  This  is  the  elocutionary  stress  given  to 
certain  words  in  a  sentence  in  order  to  bring  them  into 
prominence.     Take  the  line, 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow. 

Without  going  into  minute  distinctions,  it  is  clear  that  the 
words  "  thine,''  "  of,"  "  the,"  "  shall,"  are  unemphatic 
compared  with  the  other  words,  —  and  so  in  every  other 
sentence.  Now,  in  the  first  place,  we  observe  in  the  above 
line,  and  in  almost  every  line  of  verse,  that  the  verse-stress 
must  often  fall  on  unemphatic  words.  On  the  other  hand, 
emphatic  words  should  not,  if  possible,  occur  in  unstressed 
parts  of  the  foot,  —  though  this  rule  is  not  always  strictly 
observed.  Thus  in  the  following,  the  strictly  emphatic  word 
"he"  falls  on  an  unaccented  part  of  the  line.  This  is  so 
plainly  evident  that  in  reading  we  should  have  recourse  to 
the  "  hovering  accent "  mentioned  above,  and  put  an  equal 
stress  on  both  words,  "  he  "  and  "  dies." 

Thou  should'st  die  |  as  he  dies  |  for  whom  none  |  sheddeth  tears. 

In  the  following  we  have  a  stress  on  the  emphatic  "from  " 
in  verse  3,  but  no  stress  on  the  contrasted  "  to  "  in  verse  4  :  — 

And  only  when  we  found  in  earth  and  air 

And  heaven  and  hell,  that  such  could  nowhere  be, 

v^     w        w      \J    v^     

That  we  |  could  not  |  ^eefrom  \  thee  an  |  y where, 

vy     —       \j    

We  fled  I  to  thee. 

KoTE.  —  It  is  absolutely  important  to  observe  that  the  posi- 
tion of  the  emphasis  in  the  line  has  much  to  do  with  the  beauty 
of  the  verse.  When  the  emphasis  in  line  after  line  falls  in 
the  same  position,  for  example,  in  the  third  and  fifth 
foot,  or  second  and  fourth,  or  second,  fourth,  and  fifth, 
and  so  on,   an  intolerable  monotony  is   the  result.      The 


METRE  165 

secret  is  in  skilfully  changing  the  position  of  the  em- 
phasis and  in  interchanging  lines  of  many  emphatic  words 
with  lines  containing  a  larger  number  of  those  that  are 
unemphatic. 

This  monotony  or  sing-song  is  very  well  exemplified  in  the  fol- 
lowing, where  three  out  of  the  four  lines  have  an  important  em- 
phasis on  the  first  and  third  stress,  and  a  sort  of  half  emphasis  on 
the  second :  — 

I  am  MONARCH  of  all  I  survey, 
My  RIGHT  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

Compare  the  following  in  the  same  metre,  where  the  emphasis 
is  varied :  — 

Before  the  beginning  of  days 
There  came  to  the  making  of  man 

Time  with  a  gift  of  tears, 
Grief  with  a  glass  that  ran. 

Note  the  unpleasant  sameness  in  the  following  lines,  due  partly 
to  the  fact  that  in  all  but  the  first  there  is  an  unemphatic  accent 
in  the  third  foot. 

How  happy  is  the  blameless  vestal's  lot. 
The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot; 
Eternal  sunshine  of  the  spotless  mind. 
Each  prayer  accepted,  and  each  wish  resigned. 

The  following  is  in  the  same  metre,  with  the  same  arrangement 
of  rhymes,  yet  it  leaves  an  absolutely  different  impression.  This 
comes  in  good  part  from  the  constant  variation  in  the  emphasis. 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall. 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf 's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 


166  VERSIFICATION 

TV.   The  Stanza  and  Bi.ank  Verse 

1.  The  Stanza.  — A  stanza  is  a  group  of  lines  taken  as  a 
unit  of  measure  and  generally  bound  together  by  some 
scheme  of  rhymes.  It  would  be  impossible  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  all  tlie  stanzas  in  use  in  English.  The  following 
represent  the  principal  varieties  :  — 

The  Rhymmg  Couplet,  frequently  of  iambic  pentameters, 
as  :  — 

Words  are  like  leaves,  and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 

The  Quatrain,  either  of  alternate  rhymes,  as  in  Gray's 
"  Elegy,"  or  of  middle  and  end  rhymes,  as  in  Tennyson's 
"  In  Memoriam  "  :  — 

Take  wings  of  fancy  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpened  to  a  needle's  end. 

The  Spenserian  Stanza,  consisting  of  eight  iambic  penta- 
meters followed  by  an  Alexandrine,  the  rhyme  scheme  being 
as  follows  lababbcbcc. 

His  haughtie  Helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold, 

Both  glorious  brightnesse  and  great  terrour  bredd: 

For  all  the  crest  a  Dragon  did  enfold 

With  greedie  pawes,  and  over  all  did  spredd 

His  golden  winges :  his  dreadful  hideous  hedd. 

Close  crouched  on  the  bever,  seemed  to  throw 

From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparckles  fiery  redd. 

That  sudden  horrour  to  faint  hartes  did  show ; 

And  scaly  tayle  was  stretcht  adowne  his  back  full  low. 

—  "  The  Faerie  Queene,"  Canto  VII,  stanza  31. 

The  Sonnet,  consisting  of  fourteen  iambic  pentameters. 
It  is  divided  into  two  distinct  parts  separated  by  a  full 
pause ;  these  are  :   an  octave,  made  up  of  two  quatrains, 


METRE  167 

whose  rhyme-sclieme  i?,  ah  h  a,  repeated,  and  a  sestet,  made 
up  of  two  tercets,  whose  rhyme-scheme  is  variable.  The 
proper  rhythm  of  the  sonnet  is  marred  by  ending  with  a 
rhyming  couplet.^ 

The  lost  days  of  my  life,  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 

Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay  ? 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 

Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here :  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see ; 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"I  am  thyself,  —  what  hast  thou  done  to  me? 

And  T,  —  and  I,  —  thyself,"  lo  !  each  one  saith, — 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity." 

—  D.  G.  RossETTi,  "  Lost  Days." 

In  judging  of  the  characteristic  effects  of  the  various 
stanzas,  we  may  observe  the  following  general  principles :  — 

(a)  Khyme  has  a  binding  character,  i.e.  it  rivets  together 
the  rhyming  lines,  and  hence  tends  to  separate  them  from 
following  lines  into  a  distinct  unity  of  their  own. 

(6)  The  nearer  the  rhymes  approach  each  other,  and  the 
more  conspicuous  the  rhyming  sounds,  the  more  this  effect 
of  the  rhyme  is  felt. 

(c)  A  line  differing  in  length  from  the  normal  line  of  the 
stanza,  whether  shorter  or  longer,  arrests  attention  and 
hence  makes  for  emphasis,  shorter  lines  tending  towards 
lightness  or  abruptness,  longer  lines  towards  fullness,  or 

1  The  Shakespearian  sonnet  is  constructed  differently  —  consisting  of 
three  quatrains  of  alternate  rhyming  lines,  followed  by  a  rhyming  couplet. 


168  VERSIFICATION 

repose  or  conclusiveness.  But  these  principles  can  only  be 
realized  and  appreciated  by  reading  and  rereading  the 
poets. 

From  these  principles  we  conclude  as  follows :  — 
(a)  The  Rhyming  Couplet,  from  the  very  fact  that  it 
couples  lines  and  tends  to  make  of  the  pair  a  distinct  unity, 
is  adapted  to  sententious  and  antithetic  poetry,  and  is  less 
suitable  to  the  even  continuity  of  a  narrative.  Yet  this 
broken  effect  may  be  greatly  lessened  by  various  means, 
such  as  inconspicuous  rhymes,  run-over  lines,  and  the  like. 

(6)  The  Alternating  Rhyming  Quatrain  breaks  the  move- 
ment in  much  the  same  way,  but  four  lines  prolong  the  ex- 
pression, and  diminish  the  tendency  to  abruptness  and 
antithesis.  Hence  this  stanza  is  used  with  fine  effect  in  the 
long  meditative  pentameters  of  Gray's  "  Elegy." 

(c)  The  "  In  Memoriam  "  Stanza,  while  it  strengthens  the 
interior  rhymes,  softens  the  end  rhyme  by  separating  it  so 
far  from  the  rhyming  word.  The  effect  of  this  is  to  make 
the  unity  of  the  stanza  less  compact,  and  to  give  a  smooth- 
ness and  continuity  between  the  stanzas  that  would  be 
difficult  to  realize  in  the  metre  of  the  "Elegy." 

(d)  The  Spenserian  Stanza  has  been  well  called  the  metre 
of  word-painting.  Of  all  metres  it  is  the  least  adapted  to 
the  continuous  narrative;  the  Alexandrine  line  at  the  end 
of  each  stanza,  reenforced  with  a  third  rhyme,  gives  a  decided 
termination  which  it  is  impossible  to  escape,  and  the  length 
of  the  stanza  tempts  the  writer  into  "  lingering  descriptions." 
But  the  complexity  of  the  rhyme,  and  what  Shelley  calls  the 
"  harmonious  arrangement  of  the  pauses,"  give  peculiar  bril- 
liancy to  this  stanza. 

(e)  The  Sonnet  is  the  most  elaborate  and  the  most  formal 
of  verse-forms,  and  is  best  suited  to  grave  or  lofty  reflections. 
It  should  possess  a  perfect  unity  of  thought,  completed  with 
the  fourteen  lines.     The  sestet  must  be  separated  from  the 


METRE  169 

octave  by  a  pause,  and  should  contain  some  new  turn  or 
development  or  application  of  the  theme.  The  last  lines  are 
often  sententious  or  epigrammatic,  and  their  movement  re- 
tarded by  a  certain  weightiness  in  the  language.  This  is  all 
illustrated  in  the  sonnet  quoted  above. ^ 

2.  Blank  Verse.  —  The  usual  metre  of  blank  verse  is  the 
iambic  pentameter.  Though  it  is  without  the  distinction 
that  rhyme  gives  to  English  verse,  and  approaches  by  its 
movement  the  rhythm  of  prose,  it  has  been  raised  by  the 
dextrous  handling  of  the  poets  to  a  perfection  capable  of 
sustaining  the  highest  poetic  conception.  This  has  been 
achieved  by  an  artful  use  of  substitution  and  inversion, 
by  properly  ballasting  the  lines  with  vowel  and  consonant 
sounds,  by  a  skilful  variation  of  the  caesural  pause,  and  by 
a  just  distribution  of  emphasis  throughout  the  lines. 

Besides  these  features,  which  have  been  considered  in  the 
preceding  pages,  an  important  element  in  the  composition  of 
blank  verse^is  the  phrasal  cadence.  This  is  the  sweep  of  the 
rhythm  from  one  important  pause  in  the  sense  to  another, 
as:  — 

Cherubic  songs  by  night  from  neighboring  hills 
Aerial  music  send.  —  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  V,  11.  552-553. 

It  is  comparable  to  the  "  phrase  "  in  musical  composition ;  for 
as  music  groups  together  bars  and  portions  of  bars,  so  the 
phrasal  cadence  groups  metrical  feet  and  portions  of  feet.  It 
is  the  same  in  principle  as  what  is  called  the  rhythm  of  prose, 
but  it  becomes  more  conspicuous  and  effective  in  poetry  be- 
cause of  the  metre  which  it  breaks  in  upon  and  retards,  and 
with  which  it  may  either  clash  or  coincide  in  various  ways. 
A  great  variety  of  beautiful  cadences  is  thus  produced,  some 
commensurate  with  the  line,  others  overflowing  into  the 

1  See  Corson's  "Primer  of  English  Verse"  for  an  elaborate  and  suggestive 
analysis  of  these  and  other  stanzas. 


170  VERSIFICA  TION 

next  line,  others  reaching  through   several  lines,  and   so 
on.     Thus  — 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world, 

Favor  my  solemn  song.  —  Shelley,  "  Alastor." 

For  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  Western  stars,  until  I  die. 

—  Tennyson,  "Ulysses." 

A  face 
Most  starry  fair,  but  kindled  from  within 
As  'twere  with  dawn.  —  Tennyson,  "  A  Lover's  Tale." 

Finally,  an  important  part  of  the  perfection  of  blank  verse 
is  due  to  the  verse-pa7'agraph.  This  consists  of  a  series  of 
cadences  knit  closely  together  in  sense  and  in  rhythm, 
and  finally  brought  to  a  close  in  which  the  mind  and  the 
ear  are  satisfied  as  with  the  sense  of  completeness.  For 
examples  of  the  verse-paragraph,  see  Milton  and  Tennyson 
passim.  Thus  in  Tennyson's  "Ulysses"  we  may  note  five 
verse-paragraphs,  ending  respectively  with  the  following 
lines :  — 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy.  — 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought.  — 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods.  — 
Of  all  the  Western  stars  until  I  die.  — 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield,  -r- 

An  example  from  Milton  may  be  found  in  the  selection 
quoted  at  the  end  of  the  chapter  on  Verse-Melody. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Criticize  the  following,  —  whether  appropriate  or  not,  and 
why  :  — 

(a)  The  use  of  the  rhyming  couplet  ii4  translating  the  "  Iliad," 
as  in  Pope. 


METRE  171 

(Z>)  The  use  of  the  Spenserian  stanza  for  a  translation  of  Vergil's 

"  ^neid." 

2.  Criticize  the  following  sonnets  according  to  principles  men- 
tioned above : — 

(a)  "  Memory,"  Golden  Treasury,  XXXIX. 

(l)  "  On  Chapman's  Homer,"  Golden  Treasury,  CCX. 

(c)  "  The  Seasons,"  Golden  Treasury,  CCCXXXIII. 

3.  Select  the  finest  cadences  of  about  two  lines  from  Tennyson's 
"  Ulysses,"  "  Morte  d'Arthur,"  Introduction  to  "  The  Princess." 


CHAPTER   II 
Verse-Melody 

Under  this  head  we  include  all  the  features  of  versification 
that  regard,  not  the  measurement  of  the  verse,  but  the  music 
of  its  individual  words.  The  most  conspicuous  melody 
comes  from  rhyme. 

1.  Rhyme.  —  A  single  rhyme  is  a  rhyme  of  one  syllable. 
The  requisites  are :  — 

(1)  That  the  vowel  sound  in  the  rhyming  syllables  a.nd 
the  succeeding  consonant  sounds  be  identical. 

(2)  That  the  sounds  preceding  the  vowel  sound  be 
different. 

(3)  That  the  rhyming  syllables  be  accented. 

Thus,  rhyme  —  time;   but  not  thyme  —  time,   nor   time — • 

thine,  nor  city  —  defy. 

A  multiple  (double  or  triple)  rhyme  is  a  rhyme  of  two  or 
three  syllables.     The  requisites  are :  — 

(1)  That  the  accent  of  the  rhyming  words  fall  on  the 
penult  or  antepenult. 

(2)  That  the  accented  syllables  of  the  two  words  conform 
to  the  rule  of  the  single  rhyme. 

(3)  That  the  unaccented  syllables  following  the  accented 
be  identical  in  sound. 

Thus,  city — pity  ;  not  charity — pity,  nor  charity  —  rarify, 
nor  cherishes  — perisheth. 

172 


VERSE-MELODY  173 

An  imperfect  rhyme  is  one  in  which  the  vowel  and  sub- 
sequent consonant  sounds  are  not  quite  identical  in  the  rhym- 
ing words,  but  are  similar,  or,  sometimes,  only  similarly 
spelled.  The  practice  of  the  best  poets  alone  should  be 
imitated,  and  sparingly.  Thus,  love  —  Jove,  light  —  wity 
care  —  war  (Pope);  lost  —  coast,  towers  —  adores  (Gray). 

The  usual  place  of  the  rhyme  is  at  the  end  of  the  line,  but  it  occurs 
also  at  the  caesural  pause.  Sometimes  two  rhyming  words  are  in- 
troduced with  fine  effect  at  unexpected  places  in  the  line,  and 
even,  though  rarely,  in  immediate  succession. 

1 
I  sat  with  Doris  the  shepherd  maiden^ 

1  2 

Her  crook  was  laden  with  wreathed  flowers  ; 
3  4 

I  sat  and  wooed  her  through  sunlight  wheeling 
4  2 

And  shadows  stealing,  for  hours  and  hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  encloses 

Wild  summer  roses  of  sweet  perfume, 

8 

The  while  I  sued  her,  kept  hushed,  and  hearkened 

Till  shades  had  darkened  from  gloss  to  gloom. 

—  H.  J.  MuNDY,  "Doris." 

There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old 
By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea; 

In  a  land  of  sand  and  ruin  and  gold 

There  shone  one  woman  and  none  but  she. 

—  Swinburne,  "  The  Triumph  of  Time.'* 

Airy,  fairy  Lillian. 

And  over  them  the  sea  wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam. 

Besides  the  obvious  musical  effect  of  harmonizing  sounds, 
rhyme,  first,  gives  a  distinct  emphasis  to  words,  and,  sec- 


174  VERSIFICATION 

ondly,  as  noted  above,  tends  to  couple  together  the  rhyming 
lines.  Both  are  increased  by  the  prominence  of  the  rhymes 
and  by  their  proximity  to  each  other. 

EXERCISES 

Point  out  the  defects  in  the  following  rhymes:  — 
Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 

The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly. 

When  lamp-like  Spain,  who  now  relumes  her  fire 
On  freedom's  hearth,  grew  dim  with  empire. 

We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest, 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest. 

2.  Quantity.  —  What  we  call  the  "  quantity  "  of  syllables 
is  the  time  required  to  pronounce  them,  as  "  drear,"  long  in 
quantity;  "it,"  short  in  quantity.  In  Latin  and  Greek 
they  were  divided  for  verse  purposes  into  long  and  short, 
and  every  syllable,  with  few  exceptions,  was  definitely 
classed,  according  to  known  rules,  as  one  or  the  other.  In 
English  there  is  no  such  distinction,  but  every  varying 
degree  of  quantity  is  to  be  found  and  is  felt  in  the  verse- 
structure.  Usually  a  syllable  is  prolonged  by  open  vowel- 
sounds  (contrast,  for  instance,  "  see  "  and  "  met "  ),  and  by 
a  multiplication  of  consonants  (contrast  "rocks"  and 
"of"). 


VEBSE-MELODY  175 

The  quantity  of  a  syllable,  therefore,  is  quite  distinct  from  its 
accent.  A  long  syllable  is  not  necessarily  accented,  nor  a  short 
one  unaccented.  Thus  "  recompense "  carries  the  accent  on  its 
first  syllable,  though  the  two  following  are  longer  in  quantity. 
Compare  in  the  same  way  "  disfigurement,"  —  "  transfer,"  —  "  pas- 
times,"—  "  foretell." 

Though  quantity  is  not  the  determining  factor  in  the 
measurement  of  English  verse,  yet  it  plays  a  conspicuous 
part  in  making  up  its  melody.  The  tone  of  the  line,  its 
dignity,  grace,  rapidity,  all  depend  in  large  measure  on 
the  judicious  use  of  long  and  short  syllables.  The  follow- 
ing are  guiding  rules  of  the  most  general  kind  :  — 

(a)  Long  syllables  retard  the  movement,  hence  are  ap- 
propriate to  solemn,  stately,  mournful  emotions.  A  surplus 
of  long  syllables,  especially  in  unaccented  parts  of  the  verse, 
makes  the  verse  cumbersome  and  unwieldy. 

(5)  Short  syllables  accelerate  the  movement,  hence  are 
suitable  for  light,  gay,  eager  emotion.  A  surplus  of  short 
syllables,  especially  in  accented  parts,  makes  the  verse  trivial 
and  flippant. 

But  it  may  be  observed  here  that  emphatic  words, — 
words  charged  with  significance, — even  when  short  in 
quantity,  arrest  attention  and  so  seem  to  retard  the  move- 
ment. 

Note  the  effects  of  quantity  in  the  following :  — 
Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll. 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  through  the  lawn. 
The  murmur  of  innumerable  bees. 
Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and  shades  of  death. 

The  easy  flow  of  the  following  line  is  broken  partly  by  the  suc- 
cession of  long  syllables  at  the  end. 

Who  could  offer  the  sunbloom  of  morn  on  her  cheek  to  Death's 
drear  hand  to  blast  ? 


176  VERSIFICATION 

Part  of  the  triviality  of  the  following  is  due  to  the  rapid  pattei 
of  the  short  syllables  :  — 

Then  we  let  off  paper  kisses,  each  of  which  contained  a  motto, 
And  she  listened  as  I  read  them,  till  her  mother  told  her  not  to. 

The  effect  of  mere  emphasis  instead  of  syllabic  quantity  in 
giving  weight  to  a  verse  may  be  seen  in  the  second  of  these  lines :  — 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


EXERCISES 

1.  Underline  the  longer  syllables  in  the  first  stanza  of  the  "  Ode 
to  Autumn,"  Golden  Treasury,  CCCIII. 

2.  Compare  the  proportion  of  long  and  short  syllables  in  the 
following :  — 

(a)  Third  stanza  in  Milton's  "  Ode  on  the  Nativity  "  (Golden 
Treasury,  LXXXV),  and  fifth  stanza  in  Spenser's  "  Prothalamion  " 
(Golden  Treasury,  LXXIV). 

(h)    Golden  Treasury,  CLVI  and  LXV. 

3.  Alliteration  and  Assonance.  —  One  of  the  sources  of 
melodic  effect  particularly  characteristic  of  English  verse  is 
alliteration,  that  is,  the  repetition  of  identical  consonant  sounds 
in  nearly  connected  words  or  syllables.  Like  all  artistic 
devices,  alliteration  should  be  unobtrusive,  and  not  distract 
attention  from  the  matter  to  the  manner  of  expression. 
Hence,  some  of  the  most  delicate  effects  are  produced  by 
internal  alliteration ;  that  is,  of  consonants  in  the  middle  of 
words. 

Alliteration  increases  the  value  of  the  consonants  alliterated ;  it 
gives  additional  smoothness  g,nd  sweetness  to  the  soft  labials  and 
greater  strength  to  the  harder  sounds ;  it  is  used  besides  in  a  variety 
of  ways  for  onomatopoeia. 


VERSE-MELODY  177 

Effective  Initial  Alliteration  :  — 

All  night  long  in  the  world  of  sleep 

Skies  and  waters  were  soft  and  deep : 

Shadow  clothed  them  and  silence  made 

Soundless  music  of  dream  and  shade : 

All  above  us  the  livelong  night, 

Shadow  kindled  with  sense  of  light; 

All  around  us  the  brief  night  long, 

Silence,  laden  with  sense  of  song. 

—  Swinburne,  "  Loch  Torridon."! 
Excessive  Alliteration :  — 

O  wind,  O  wingless  wind,  that  walk'st  the  sea 
Weak  wind,  wing-broken,  wearier  wind  than  we. 

Delicate  Internal  Alliteration  :  — 

And  forthwith  Light 
Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure, 
Sprung  from  the  deep ;  and  from  her  native  east, 
To  journey  through  the  aery  gloom  began, 
Sphered  in  a  radiant  cloud. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  VII,  11.  243  flf. 

Assonance  is  the  repetition  of  the  same  or  kindred  vowel 
sounds  in  successive  or  approximate  syllables.  It  is  less 
conspicuous  than  alliteration,  but  plays  a  more  important 
part  in  the  melody  of  the  verse.  For  the  melodic  effect  of 
assonance  see  below,  under  Onomatopoeia. 
Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising. 

Wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre. 

—  Tennyson,  "  To  Virgil." 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year: 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

—  PoE,  "  Ullalume." 
1  Copyright,  1904,  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 


178  VERSIFICATION 

EXERCISES 

1.  Group  together  the  alliterated  words  in  the  following, 
underlining  the  internal  alliterated  syllables:  Golden  Treasury, 
CCCXXXIV,  Golden  Treasury,  CCXCVIl;  Tennyson's  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  first  stanzas. 

2.  Group  together  words  that  are  marked  by  assonance  in  the 
following:  Golden  Treasury,  CCCXXI,  first  stanza.  Golden 
Treasury,  CCCVII,  Tennyson's  "Lotus  Eaters,"  first  and  second 
stanzas. 

4.  Onomatopoeia.  —  Onomatopoeia  is  the  resemblance  be- 
tween the  sound  of  words  and  the  sense  they  convey.  We 
should  distinguish  between  the  following :  — 

(a)  Direct  Onomatopoeia,  —  when  the  vowel  and  con- 
sonant sounds  actually  imitate  in  their  sound  what  is  de- 
scribed in  the  verse.  This  is  seen  most  conspicuously  in  such 
words  as  "  hiss/'  "  roar,"  "  rattle,"  "  scream,"  "  whisper,"  and 
the  like.     It  is  exemplified  in  the  following  lines :  — 

Ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne  beetle  with  his  drowsy  hums 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

—  "Macbeth,"  Act  III,  So.  2, 11.  41  ff. 

The  lisp  of  leaves  and  the  ripple  of  rain. 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms. 

(b)  Suggestive  Onomatopoeia,  —  when  the  sound  of  vowels 
and  consonants  does  not  reproduce,  but  merely  suggests 
what  is  described.  For  certain  vowels  and  consonants 
seem  to  have  a  relationship  with  certain  emotions  and  to 
possess  the  power  of  calling  up  these  emotions  by  their  very 
sound.  Thus  the  i  and  e  sounds  are  allied  to  notions  of 
littleness  and  delicacy,  and  of  levity  and  mirth.  The  broad 
0  and  ah  sounds  suggest  breadth,  largeness,  repose,  and  hence 
contemplation,  melancholy,  and  the  like.     D  sounds  may  be 


VERSE-MELODY  179 

representative  of  hardness ;  I  and  t  sounds,  of  smallness ; 
heavy  combinations  of  consonants  imply  difficulty,  effort. 
For  a  complete  analysis  of  this  matter  the  student  is  referred 
to  Raymond's  "Poetry  as  a  Representative  Art." 

Note  the  suggestive  onomatopoeia  in  the  following  lines:  — 

She  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone, 
****** 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies, 
****** 
Her  whip  of  cricket's  bone,  the  lash  of  film. 

The  little  fleet 
Touched,  clinked  and  clashed,  and  vanished. 

X  sounds  and  t,  b,  k  are  used  in  the  following  to  suggest  hard- 
ness :  — 

And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe, 
Hew  down  and  fell  the  hardest-timbered  oak. 

You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt-couriers  to  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts. 

In  the  following  the  consonant  sounds  are  light,  and  the  vowel 
sounds  for  the  most  part  closed  or  inconspicuous  as  far  as  the  pe- 
nultimate line,  where  the  broad,  open  sounds  succeed,  and  the  selec- 
tion ends  with  a  good  specimen  of  direct  onomatopoeia. 

Sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  science  ;  otherwhere 
Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamour  bowl'd 
And  stump't  the  wicket ;  babies  rolled  about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ;  and  men  and  maids 
.  Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  through  hght 
And  shadow,  while  the  twanging  violin 
Struck  up  with  "  Soldier-laddie,"  and  overhead 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from  end  to  end. 

—  Tennyson,  "The  Princess." 


180  VERSIFICATION 

But  suggestive  onomatopoeia  may  be  brought  about  in  other 
ways  besides  the  use  of  vowel  and  consonant  sounds.  In- 
deed, all  the  so-called  artistic  effects  of  the  various  verse 
features  which  have  been  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  pages 
are  nothing  more  nor  less  than  instances  of  suggestive  ono- 
matopoeia.    Thus  we  may  bring  into  service  — 

(1)  The  length  of  the  line;  for  a  short  line  is  suggestive 
of  less  importance  than  a  long  one. 

(2)  The  character  of  the  metre ;  for  the  iambic  movement 
is  more  conclusive  and  final  than  the  trochaic. 

(3)  The  compensating  pause  and  inversions  of  feet,  which 
at  least  are  indicative  of  emphasis. 

(4)  The  quantity  of  the  syllables ;  for  long  syllables  sug- 
gest a  greater  deliberation  and  gravity  than  short  ones. 

In  these  lines,  the  distribution  of  the  emphasis,  the  arrangement 
of  pauses,  the  delay  and  acceleration  of  the  syllables,  are  onomato- 
poeic as  well  as  the  sound  of  the  vowels  and  consonants :  — 

Sate  sanguine  divom, 
Tros  Anchisiade,  facilis  descensus  Averno ; 
noctes  atque  dies  patet  atri  janua  Ditis ; 
sed  revocare  gradum  superasque  evadere  ad  auras, 
hoc  opus,  hie  labor  est.     Pauci,  quos  aequus  amavit 
Juppiter,  aut  ardens  evexit  ad  aethera  virtus, . 
dis  geniti  potuere.  _  .  ^^^^.^^„  ^^^^  ^j^  jj  ^^5  if. 

Delicately  suggested  onomatopoeia  of  some  kind  seems  to 
be  at  the  heart  of  all  great  poetic  music.  One  might  say 
that  this  was  precisely  the  distinctive  trait  that  separated  the 
best  poetry  from  the  mediocre  or  the  good.  But  the  onomato- 
poeia that  we  now  refer  to  is  not  a  broad  and  literal  imitation 
of  sounds,  but  the  delicate,  scarcely  perceptible  suggestion 
that  lies  beyond  the  reach  of  the  untrained  ear  entirely,  and 
in  the  case  of  the  poet  himself  is  achieved  quite  uncon- 
sciously, the  power  of  his  emotion  controlling  and  directing 
his  musical  instinct  into  the  channel  of  perfect  expression. 


VERSE-MELOBT 


181 


Alliteration 

VERSE-ANALYSIS   OF   PARADISE 
LOST,    IV,    598-609 

Open  Vowels 

N-T 

Now  came  still  evening  on,]  and  twilight 
gray 

ow-e-i-a 

R-L 

W                                         KJ\J   

Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad :  ||| 

o-aw 

S-N-B 

Silence   accompanied ;  II     for  beast   and 
bird,  II 

i-e 

TH-S 

They  to  their  grassy  couch, |    these  to 
their  nests, || 

a-ow-e 

L-T-N 

Were  slunk,  ||  all  but  the  wakeful  night- 
ingale :|| 

aw-a-i-a 

L-N-S 

She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant 
sungiiii 

e-i-aw 

S-M 

\j 

Silence  was  pleased.|||     Now  glowed  the 

firmament 

i-e-ow-o 

L-S-R 

With  living  sapphires  ;|||  Hesperus,  that 
led 

1 

ST-T 

The  starry  host,|  rode  brightest,]]  till  the 
moon| 

ah-o-o-i-oo 

D-T 

—   w 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,]  at  length 

i-ow 

N-L 

Apparent  queen,]  unveiled  her  peerless 
light,]] 

e-a-e-i 

D-R-L-T 

And  o'er   the   dark    her    silver   mantle 

aw-ah-oo 

threw.]  II 

Suggested  Onomatopoeia :  particularly  in 

11.  3  and  4.     Note  s-sounds. 

11.  5  and  6.     Note  open  vowels. 

Finest   Cadences:      last  three   and  half 

lines.      Note    sense     suspended,    and 

sweeping  to  conclusion.     Excellent  ex- 

ample of  a  verse-paragraph. 

182  VERSIFICATION 

VERSE-ANALYSIS   OF   THE   FIRST   STANZA   OF   KEATS'S 
ODE  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

(1)  My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

(2)  My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 

(3)  Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

(4)  One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 

(5)  'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

(6)  But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

(7)  That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

(8)  In  some  melodious  plot 

(9)  Of  beechen  green  and  shadows  numberless, 
(10)       Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Metre,  —  iambic  pentameter :  eighth  line  iambic  trimeter. 
Rhyme  scheme  :    ababcdecde. 

(1)  Note  the  fine  effect  of  the  inversion  in  foot  2,  which 
together  with  two  long  syllables  preceding,  give  a  very 
strong  emphasis ;  also  the  suggested  onomatopoeia  in  the 
long  vowel  and  consonant  sounds  at  the  end  of  the  verse. 

(2)  The  run-over  phrasing  from  lines  1  to  2  and  the 
sudden  pause  at  the  end  of  the  first  foot  in  line  2  breaks 
the  smoothness  and  suggests  the  effort  of  a  drowsy  mind. 

(3)  Note  the  alliteration  of  t  and  d  sounds,  implying 
weight  and  heaviness. 

(4)  The  long  word  "  Lethe- wards "  and  the  hard  beat 
of  the  two  succeeding  monosyllables  are  peculiarly  imita- 
tive of  the  idea  expressed. 

(5)  An  unemphatic  line  run  off  rapidly  in  lighter 
syllables. 

(6)  "  -Ing "  in  "  being "  is  pronounced  so  rapidly  that 
the  effect  of  the  anapest  in  the  second  line  is  not  percep- 
tible. A  strong  emphasis  is  obtained  for  the  thematic  idea 
of  the  whole  poem  by  the  echo,  "happy"  —  "happiness." 

(7)  "  Light-winged  Dryad  of   the   trees  "  is  surely  the 


VEBSE-MELODY  183 

most  emotional  phrase  of  the  stanza.  Body  is  given  to 
the  phrase  by  the  long-quantitied  word  "light-winged,"  and 
an  onomatopoeic  lightness  by  the  succession  of  three  short 
syllables  before  the  last. 

(8)  The  unexpected  ending  of  this  line  after  the  third 
foot  gives  special  prominence  to  the  last  syllable,  i.e.  to 
the  rhyming  word.  This  draws  attention  to  the  recurrence 
of  the  rhyme  after  two  intervening  lines. 

(9)  Note  the  assonance  in  "  beechen  green,"  also  the  fine 
musical p/irase  "  In  some  melodious  plot  of  beechen  green  and 
shadows  numberless."  The  exquisite  succession  of  liquids 
and  the  variety  of  vowel  sounds  make  precisely  a  "  melody." 

(10)  The  last  line  must  have  weight  of  sound  and  empha- 
sis of  sense  sufficient  to  bring  the  long  stanza  to  a  satis- 
factory close.  Both  are  achieved.  But  it  must  be  remarked 
that  the  poet  has  exposed  the  line  to  the  danger  of  being 
scanned  in  dactyls,  thus :  "  Singest  of  |  summer  in  |  full- 
throated  I  ease."  This  would  be  fatal  to  the  stanza.  The  line 
would  be  more  perfect  if  a  more  emphatic  syllable  replaced 
the  short  word  "  in,"  as  in  the  last  line  of  the  other  stanzas. 

The  stanza  itself  is  distinctly  bi-partite.  The  quatrain 
(first  four  lines)  forms  a  complete  unity,  and  is  followed  by 
a  pause.  The  second  part  —  the  sestet  —  either  explains  the 
thought  of  the  first  part  as  here,  or  repeats  it  as  in  the 
second  stanza,  or  in  some  other  way  gives  it  new  meaning. 

EXERCISES 

1.  Make  a  verse-analysis,  like  either  or  both  of  the  preceding, 
of  Coleridge's  "Kubla  Khan,"  Golden  Treasury,  CCCXVI. 

2.  Illustrate  from  Tennyson's  "  Morte  d' Arthur  "  and  "  Ulysses  " 
the  following  remark  of  Mr.  Saintsbury  on  the  verse  of  these  two 
poems :  "  The  '  Morte '  verse  is  the  more  undulating,  the  more 
entwined,  the  more  various  and  excursive.  .  .  .  The  other,  '  Ulys- 
ses,' is  slightly  more  rhetorical,  closer-knit,  more  sententious  and 
weighty,  to  be  pronounced  slower." 


APPENDIX  I 

Topics  for  the  Study  of  Lyric  Poems 

The  following  topics  are  provided  for  those  who  find  it 
convenient  to  study  given  poems  according  to  a  set  plan. 
The  more  salient  principles  discussed  in  the  preceding 
pages  of  the  book  are  here  brought  together  in  an  order 
suited  to  the  present  purpose. 

(1)  State  the  theme  or  central  idea  of  the  poem.  Eor- 
mulate  accurately  the  prevailing  emotion  or  emotions. 
Considering  these  together,  judge  whether  the  poem  is  noble 
and  elevating  as  explained,  or  mean,  trivial,  common. 

(2)  Is  the  expression  flat,  dead,  uninspired,  or,  in  other 
words,  is  the  poem  unemotional?  Is  the  emotion  unsuited 
to  the  poet's  conception?  is  it  too  feeble  for  the  subject? 
or  exaggerated,  that  is,  without  sufficient  motive?  Com- 
pare the  intensity  of  the  emotion  with  that  of  any  other 
poem  previously  studied. 

(3)  Is  the  emotion  suggested  chiefly  by  the  imaginative 
elements  ?  by  the  thought  itself  ?  by  the  musical  quality  of 
the  verse  ?  or  by  the  suggestive  character  of  the  diction  ? 

Tlie  emotion  will  usually  be  suggested  by  all  of  these  means.  In 
some  poems  one  or  other  stands  out  conspicuously. 

(4)  Is  the  central  thought  of  the  poem  true  ;  that  is,  based 
upon  a  true  conception  of  human  life  and  conduct? 

(5)  Is  the  imagery  fanciful,  or  do  we  find  any  instances 
of  fancy  in  the  lines  ?  Call  attention  to  the  chief  imagina- 
tive  elements  in  the  poem.     Do  these  blend  into  one  great 

185. 


186  APPENDIX  I 

emotional  and  imaginative  impression?  or  do  they  rather 
form  a  series  of  loosely  related  images?  Show  in  a  general 
way  how  the  central  thought  is  idealized ;  that  is,  lifted  out 
of  the  commonplace  or  the  prosaic  into  a  rich,  poetical  con- 
ception. 

(6)  Does  the  diction  seem  to  be  either  excessively  elabo- 
rate and  artificial,  or  feeble  and  inadequate?  Indicate  in- 
stances where  the  diction  contributes  to  the  idealization  —  by 
its  homeliness,  its  freshness,  its  simplicity,  its  richness,  its 
quaintness,  its  dignity,  its  remoteness,  and  the  like;  also 
instances,  if  any,  where  the  general  impression  is  impaired 
by  the  diction. 

(7)  Explain  in  a  general  way  how  the  metre  and  verse- 
melody  harmonize  with  the  whole  tenor  of  thought  and 
emotion. 

As  a  help  to  the  discussion  of  versification,  consult  Mr.  Saintsbury's 
"  History  of  English  Prosody  "  for  suggestive  remarks  upon  the  versifi- 
cation of  each  poet. 

It  will  often  be  helpful  to  study  two  or  three  lyrics  to- 
gether,—  to  compare  them,  in  this  respect  or  that,  —  to  rate 
one  abov6  another  in  point  of  imagination  and  emotion  and 
thought-significance. 

Above  all,  it  is  indispensable  to  understand  and  appreciate 
each  poet's  particular  message  to  the  world,  his  outlook  upon 
nature  and  life,  and  the  manifestation  of  these  in  each  of  his 
poems.  For  the  most  important  advantage  from  the  study 
of  poetry  is  to  possess  ourselves  of  what  the  poet  has  to  offer 
for  the  enlargement  of  our  sympathies  and  ideals.  To  do 
this  successfully  it  is  necessarj^,  at  least  for  the  beginner, 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  best  criticism  of  the  poet 
studied,  and  to  make  an  effort  to  experience  for  himself,  in 
his  reading  of  the  poet,  what  he  has  found  stated  in  the 
poet's  critics. 


APPENDIX   II 

The  Diction  of  Poetry 

I.   The  Poet's  Vocabulary 

(1)  Preparatory  to  the  study  of  poetic  diction,  let  the 
student  select  any  modern  poem,  say,  of  Tennyson,  Words- 
worth, Shelley,  or  Keats,  and  after  noting  the  vocabulary 
used,  that  is,  the  individual  words  apart  from  the  context, 
consider  the  availability  of  each  for  use  in  prose. 

Next  let  him  in  the  same  way  note  the  word-list  in  any 
selection  of  modern  prose,  and  consider  each  word's  suit- 
ability to  enter  into  verse-composition. 

This  investigation  is  bound  to  reveal  a  similarity  between 
the  language  of  poetry  and  prose  that  will  prove  astonish- 
ing to  the  inexperienced.  It  will  help  to  remove  the  false 
impression  that  the  essence  of  poetic  diction  consists  in  the 
use  of  artificial  or  unusual  words.  The  first  of  all  lessons 
to  be  learned  in  studying  poetic  diction  is  that  the  words 
available  for  use  in  poetry  and  prose  are  practically  identical. 

They  are  not,  indeed,  absolutely  identical.  For  if  the  student's 
investigation  has  taken  him  into  a  certain  ornate  style  of  verse, 
such  as  Tennyson's  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  he  will  have  noted  certain 
words  unnatural  in  prose,  at  least  in  prose  that  is  not  halfway 
poetry.  Such  are  archaic  words,  as  "  brand  "  for  "  sword,"  "  be- 
wray "  for  "  betray,"  or  words  of  new  coinage,  such  as  the  verbs 
"  dusk  and  shiver,"  "  round  "  used  as  a  noun  in  "  the  round  of 
space,"  and  compound  words  of  many  kinds.  But  after  all  we 
find  that  the   vocabulary   of   poetry  is  not  essentially  different 

187 


188  APPENDIX  II 

from  that  of  prose  and  even  purely  poetic  words  are  of  com- 
paratively rare  occurrence,  except,  of  course,  where  the  archaic 
style  is  affected  deliberately. 

(2)  The  second  lesson  is  the  use  of  words  in  a  new 
collocation.  A  word  that  is  perfectly  commonplace  and 
unimpressive  in  itself  may  be  endowed  with  new  life  and 
suggestiveness  by  the  context  in  which  it  is  set.  From  a 
prose  word  it  becomes  poetical.  It  opens  up  a  vista  to  the 
imagination,  it  kindles  a  thrill  of  emotion,  it  suggests  in 
a  flash  what  it  would  take  a  host  of  words  to  express 
explicitly.  This  skilful  combination  of  words  is  a  very  im- 
portant feature  of  poetic  expression.  It  must  be  studied 
at  length  and  persistently  by  any  one  who  would  achieve 
success  in  the  use  of  poetic  language,  and  examples  for 
study  may  be  found  in  every  poem.  But  it  must  be  borne 
in.  mind  that  the  purpose  of  the  study  is  not  to  stock  the 
memory  with  phrases  found  in  the  poets,  but  to  master 
the  spirit  and  possibilities  of  the  language ;  then  the  student 
may  venture  on  new  combinations  in  keeping  with  this  spirit 
and  under  the  inspiration  of  his  own  imagination  and  feeling. 

Nothing  could  be  more  commonplace  in  themselves  than 
the  verbs  "  to  float "  and  "  to  run."  Now  observe  how 
they  are  elevated  and  idealized  in  the  following  lines :  — 

In  the  golden  lightening. 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening 
Thou  dost  ^oa^  and  run. 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

—  Shelley,  **  Skylark." 

If  I  write  "the  stick  floats,"  "the  boy  runs,"  I  use  these 
words  in  a  literal  sense,  stripped  of  all  but  their  dictionary 
meaning;  as  used  in  the  lines  just  cited,  they  suggest 
buoyancy,  swiftness,  lightness,  joy,  —  and  thus  are  endowed 
with  poetical  power. 


THE  DICTION  OF  POETRY  189 

Again,  one  may  write,  "he  drew  a  black  line  across  the 
page;"  this  is  purely  prosaic  and  matter-of-fact.  Vergil 
writes,  "  black  night  robs  the  world  of  color ;  "  this  is  in 
some  degree  poetical,  because  it  carries  with  it  a  suggestion 
of  intensity.     Milton  writes  :  — 

and,  for  lightning,  see 
Black  fire  and  horror,  shot  with  equal  rage. 

—  "Paradise  Lost,"  Book  II,  1.  67. 

This  is  an  eminently  poetic  use  of  the  epithet,  which  now 
fills  the  imagination  with  the  concept  of  what  is  portentous, 
menacing,  horrible,  baffling. 

In  the  same  way  consider  other  words,  first,  as  found  in 
the  dictionary  or  in  any  unimaginative  context ;  for  instance, 
red  —  sunshine  —  melt  —  voice  —  trouble  —  gateway —  slake 
—  sunburnt  —  breathless.  Then  examine  the  same  words  in 
the  following  poetic  setting  and  note  their  new  potency  of 
suggestion. 

Vengeance  arm 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  us. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  II,  1.  173. 

And  young  and  old  came  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holyday. 

—  Milton,  "L' Allegro." 

To  sounds  of  heavenly  harps  she  dies  away 
And  melts  in  visions  of  eternal  day. 

—  Pope,  "  Eloisa  to  Abelard." 

The  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought. 

—  Shelley,  "  Alastor." 

Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled 
And  troubled  the  gold  gateway  of  the  stars. 

—  F.  Thompson,  "  The  Hound  of  Heaven." 


^190  APPENDIX  II 

Ere  Winter  throws 
His  slaking  snows 
In  thy  feasting-flagon's  impurpurate  glows. 

—  F.  Thompson,  "  A  Corymbus  for  Autumn." 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance  and  Provencal  song  and  sunburnt  mirth  — 

--Keats,  "Nightingale." 

Like  a  nun 
Breathless  in  adoration. 

—  Wordsworth,  "  By  the  Sea." 

It  is  not  the  purpose  to  discuss  how  these  effects  are  produced. 
Some  of  the  words  are  used  as  implied  metaphors,  some  depend 
for  their  power  on  their  musical  suggestiveness,  some  are  startlingly 
vivid,  and  so  flash  a  whole  picture  into  the  imagination  by  their 
intensity.  Further  examples  may  be  found  under  each  of  these 
three  headings,  discussed  in  the  following  pages. 

II.   Poetic  Intensity 

A  distinguishing  feature  of  poetic  diction  is  intensity. 
We  call  a  passage  poetically  intense  when  every  phrase 
is  charged  with  significance.  In  poetry  no  phrase  may  be 
weakly  chosen,  —  every  phrase  should  tell,  either  by  its 
imaginative  or  its  emotional  impressiveness. 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 
Cleaving  the  western  sky. 

—  D.  G.  RossBTTi,  "  Sunset  Wings." 

In  these  lines  every  word  is  emphatic,  and  makes  a  de- 
mand on  the  imagination  of  the  reader.  It  is  imaginatively 
intense.  Compare  the  matter-of-fact  manner  of  expressing 
the  same  image.  "To-night  the  sunset  might  impress  the 
observer  as  resembling  two  golden  wings,"  etc. 
She  lived  alone,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me. 

— Wordsworth. 


*      THE  DICTION  OF  POETBT  191 

In  these  lines  the  intensity  is  emotional.  The  diction  is 
simple,  but  every  element  contributes  to  the  emotion,  —  at 
no  point  does  the  feeling  sink  or  flag. 

Let  us  now  consider  separately  each  of  these  aspects  of 
intensity,  the  imaginative  and  the  emotional,  though  they 
are  actually  inseparable,  one  reacting  on  the  other. 

1.  Imaginative  Intensity.  —  In  poetic  diction  this  shows 
itself  by  the  use  of  the  following :  — 

(1)  Epithets,  Picturesque  Verbs  and  Nouns,  Descriptive 
Detail.  —  Intensity  creates  a  tendency  to  employ  these 
forms  of  diction  more  profusely  in  poetry  than  in 
prose. 

Note.  —  (a)  They  will  be  more  intense  when  they  not 
only  fill  the  imagination  but  suggest  the  emotion  proper  to 
the  piece,  as  in  most  of  the  examples  below. 

(6)  They  will  serve  the  purpose,  though  with  less  inten- 
sity, when  they  describe  the  picturesque  or  realistic  setting, 
without  contributing  expressly  to  the  emotional  effect,  as  in 
the  first  two  examples. 

(c)  They  will  be  entirely  wanting  in  intensity  and  hence 
unpoetic  if  they  are  otiose,  such  as  all  conventional,  stock- 
phrases,  which  carry  no  stimulus  to  the  imagination :  for 
instance,  "the  shady  grove,"  "flowery  vale,"  "  tuneful  lay," 
"  orb  of  day,"  "crystal  streams,"  "  warbling  birds,"  "  purling 
brooks." 

Epithets :  — 

Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd  lad 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad. 

—  Tennyson,  "  Lady  of  Shalott." 

He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

—  Tennyson,  "Morte  d* Arthur." 


192  APPENDIX  II 

Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  loitJi  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood. 

—  "  Richard  III,"  Act  I,  Sc.  4, 11. 52  ff. 

Suffer  my  singing, 
Gipsy  of  seasons,  ere  thou  go  winging. 

—  F.  Thompson,  "A  Corymbus  for  Autumn. " 

Descriptive  Nouns  and  Verbs :  — 

Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel ;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched ;  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  I,  11.  599  ff. 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go. 

—  Browning,  "Prospice." 

Exercise.  —  Examine  certain  poems,  e.g.  Tennyson's  "  Palace 
of  Art,"  "  Lotus  Eaters,"  "Mariana";  consider  what  descriptive 
elements  contribute  to  the  emotion  of  the  piece,  and  what  do  not. 
Determine  how  the  emotion  is  suggested  by  the  image. 

In  composing  descriptive  verse,  — 

1.  We  should  fix  our  eyes  on  the  scene,  real  or  imaginary,  that 
we  mean  to  describe,  until  we  not  only  see  it  vividly,  but  also 
realize  from  contemplating  it  a  single  distinct  impression  or 
emotion. 

2.  We  should  aim  to  bring  out  this  impression  as  accurately 
and  vividly  as  possible,  —  never  directly  culling  words  or  phrases 
from  poets  read,  but  calling  on  the  store  of  expressions  accumu- 
lated in  our  minds  from  continued  and  careful  reading. 


THE  DICTION   OF  POETRY  193 

3.  We  should  try  to  convey  the  impression  intended  by  sug- 
gestive images  rather  than  by  naming  it  expressly  and  literally. 

4.  We  should  note  that  poets  incessantly  invest  nature  with 
interest  by  ascribing  to  it  personal  attributes  (as  "the  broken 
sheds  looked  sad  and  strange " ),  or  by  bringing  it  into  close 
association  with  personality  (as  "unlifted  was  the  clinking 
latch  "). 

(2)  Suggestive  Word-Painting.  —  Instead  of  using  a  multi- 
tude of  details,  the  poet  resorts  to  suggestion  and  flashes  a 
scene  upon  the  imagination  by  a  single  magical  word  or  brief 
combination  of  words.^ 

Suggestive  word-painting  possesses  a  high  degree  of  in- 
tensity because  of  the  condensation  of  the  expression.  The 
danger  attending  its  use  is  referred  to  on  page  84. 


Examples  : 


In  a  drear-nighted  Decemberj 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity. 

—  Keats,  "  Happy  Insensibility." 

But  alas ! 
Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass. 

—  Keats,  "  Isabella." 

A  little^  dry  old  nian^  without  a  star, 

Not  like  a  King.  —Tennyson,  "  Princess." 

In  the  dead  of  darkness 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me  and  thy  crying  self." 

—  "  The  Tempest,"  Act  I,  So.  2,  11.  130  ff. 

Paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  lost  in  thought. 

—  Tennyson,  "  Morte  d'Arthur." 

1  See  also  pp.  188  ff. 


194  APPENDIX  II 

Jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops. 

—  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  Act  III,  Sc.  5,  11.  10. 

In  writing  descriptive  verse,  we  should  strive  after  suggestive 
combinations  of  words,  —  always  bearing  in  mind  that,  while  we 
study  this  feature  of  the  poet's  workmanship,  we  must  in  our  own 
writing  form  the  phrase  with  the  eye  on  the  object  and  the  im- 
pression to  be  conveyed,  not  on  the  curiousness  of  the  words. 
The  idea  is  not  to  match  together  words  unmatched  before,  but  to 
invent  a  phrase  that  will  speak  suggestively  to  the  alert  imagina- 
tion of  a  reader. 

(3)  Simile  and  Metaphor.  —  These  are  the  crowning  re- 
source of  the  poet's  diction.  Their  intensity  lies  in  this, 
that  two  objects  are  thus  brought  together  in  close  imagi- 
native relationship ;  the  poet  illumines  his  theme,  whatever 
it  be,  with  the  beauty  that  surrounds  the  second  term  of  his 
comparison. 

In  every  good  simile  and  metaphor,  the  objects  compared, 
besides  the  essential  point  of  resemblance,  will  have  a  general 
emotional  kinship ;  that  is,  they  will  be  calculated  to  suggest 
the  same  general  emotion.  In  point  of  intensity  we  should 
distinguish  between  — 

(a)  The  simile  in  which  the  resemblance  is  almost  entirely 
external  and  obvious,  as  in  the  first  two  examples  below ; 

(6)  The  simile  that  appeals  to  little  or  no  external  resem- 
blance, but  is  wholly  of  an  emotional  and  imaginative 
character. 

The  latter  is,  of  course,  more  intense  and  poetical  than  the 
former. 

Simile :  — 

Over  the  waters  in  the  vaporous  West 
The  sun  goes  down  as  in  a  sphere  of  gold. 

—  Browning,  "  Paracelsus." 


THE  DICTION   OF  POETRY  195 

A  stump  of  oak  half  dead, 
From  roots,  like  some  black  coil  of  carven  snake. 
Clutched  at  the  crag,  and  started  through  mid-air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest. 

—  Tennyson,  "  The  Last  Tournament." 

O  Spartan  dog 
More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea. 

—  "  Othello,"  Act  V,  Sc.  2,  1.  362. 

She  rose  like  an  Autumnal  night  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East.  —Shelley,  "  Alastor." 

in  bulk  as  huge 

As that  sea-beast 

Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 

Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream ; 

Him,  haply,  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam 

The  pilot  of  some  small  night-founder'd  skifE 

Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell. 

With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 

Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 

Invests  the  sea  and  wished  morn  delays; 

So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  Archfiend  lay. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  I,  11.  198  ff. 

It  may  be  noticed  that  the  last  simile  differs  from  the  others  in  this, 
that  the  second  term  of  comparison  is  described  at  length.  Some- 
times totally  irrelevant  details  are  set  forth  in  description,  details 
that  give  vividness  to  the  image,  but  do  not  emphasize  the  point  of 
resemblance.  This  is  the  Homeric  Simile,  employed  after  Homer 
by  Spenser,  Milton,  Tennyson,  Arnold,  and  other  English  poets. 

Metaphor :  — 

Mine  eternal  jewel 
Given  unto  the  common  enemy  of  man. 

—  "  Macbeth,"  Act  III,  Sc.  1,  1.  68. 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world. 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

*♦♦*♦*♦ 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England. 

—  "  Richard  II,"  Act  II,  Sc.  1, 11.  46  ff. 


196  APPENDIX  II 

Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravelled  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast  — 

—  "  Macbeth,"  Act  II,  Sc.  2, 11.  37  ff. 

Yellow  and  black  and  pale  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes. 

—  Shelley,  "  West  Wind." 

Exercise.  —  Look  for  the  secondary  or  suggested  resemblances 
in  the  similes  contained  in  your  reading.  Thus  in  the  example 
above,  column  and  king  are  alike  because  both  are  broken.  Be- 
sides this  essential  resemblance,  the  column  suggests  the  stateli- 
ness  of  kingship,  the  support  that  Arthur  v^as  to  the  fellowship 
of  his  knights,  and  perhaps  other  attributes  common  to  both. 
These  are  felt  indistinctly  as  we  read. 

In  writing,  avoid  comparisons  that  are  far-fetched ;  do  not  call 
Mary  Magdalen's  tears  "  two  walking  baths,  —  portable  and  com- 
pendious oceans,"  —  nor  describe  a  virtuous  soul  as  "  like  seasoned 
timber."  The  reason  why  these  comparisons  are  far-fetched  is 
that  there  is  no  emotional  relationship  between  the  objects  com- 
pared ;  they  refuse  to  be  associated  in  our  feelings. 

(4)  Suggested  Metaphor.  —  The  suggested  metaphor  con- 
tributes to  imaginative  intensity.  It  consists,  not  in  calling 
one  object  by  the  name  of  another  ("My  life  is  a  wounded 
bird  "),  but  in  attributing  to  it  qualities  that,  taken  literally, 
belong  to  another  object  of  a  different  class,  as  "My  life 
has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing."  Here  the  mark 
of  a  wounded  bird  is  referred  to  human  life ;  the  comparison 
is  suggested  rather  than  asserted.  The  intensity  of  the 
suggested  metaphor  resides  in  its  conciseness.  It  con- 
stantly runs  along  the  line  of  -personilication,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  following  examples.  Many  of  the  effective 
word-combinations  alluded  to  above  are  reducible  to  sug- 
gested metaphor. 


THE  DICTION  OF  POETRY  197 

The  South  shall  bless,  the  East  shall  blight, 

The  red-rose  of  the  Dawn  shall  blow, 
The  million-lilied  stream  of  Night 

Wide  in  etherial  meadows  flow. 

—  Watson,  "  The  Yew-tree." 

O  how  shall  summer^  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  dags. 

—  Shakespeare,  Sonnet  65. 

As  who  should  dare 
Pluck  out  the  angry  thunder  from  its  cloud. 
That,  all  its  gathered  flame  discharged  on  him. 
No  storm  might  threaten  summer's  azure  sleep. 

—  Browning,  "Paracelsus." 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  sleeping  earth. 

—  Shelley,  '•  West  Wind." 

By  a  Spring's 
Soft  and  soul-melting  murmurings. 

—  Herrick,  "  To  Robin  Redbreast." 

2.  Emotional  Intensity.  —  (1)  Emotional  intensity  tends 
to  express  itself  in  certain  figures  of  speech.  The  chief  of 
these  are  exclamation,  inversion,  apostrophe,  and  the  repeti- 
tion or  "  echoing ''  of  an  emotional  word. 

Exclamation :  — 

O  World!  OLife!  O  Time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 
Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before. 

—  Shelley,  "Threnos." 

O,  that  this  too,  too  solid  flesh  M'ould  melt. 

Thaw  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 

Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 

His  canon  'gainst  self -slaughter !     O  God !  God ! 

How  weary,  stale,  flat  and  unprofitable 

Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world! 

—  "  Hamlet,"  Act  I,  Sc.  2, 11.  129  flf. 


198  APPENDIX  II 

Inversion  :  — 

Sweet  after  showers  ambrosial  air. 

—  Tennyson,  "  In  Memoriam." 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 

And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self -same  seas 

By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side. 

—  A.  H.  Clough,  "  Qua  Cursum  Ventus." 

Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves 
With  wild-thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown 
And  all  their  echoes  moan.  —Milton,  "Lycidas." 

Apostrophe :  — 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills  and  Groves, 
Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 

—  Wordsworth,  "Intimations." 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean,  roll ! 

—  Byron,  "  Childe  Harold.',' 

Dear  and  great  angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me  I 

—  Browning,  "  The  Guardian  Angel.*' 

Echoing :  — 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime ; 
Who  would  not  weep  for  Lycidas. 

—  Milton,  "Lycidas." 

And  all  the  dying  day  might  be 
Immortal  in  its  dying. 

-De  Vere,  "  Evening  Melody." 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat.    —Tennyson,  "  Elaine." 

(2)  Emotional  intensity  is  averse  to  long  words  or  turns 
that  have  little  or  no  emotional  significance,  such  as  never- 
thelesSj  in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  indubitably ;  and  in  general  it 


THE  DICTION  OF  POETRY  199 

economizes   words,   charging   them   with   significance,   not 
spreading  out  the  meaning  over  a  long  phrase. 
Thus,  if  we  translate  Vergil's  line,  — 

Tu  ne  cede  malis,  sed  contra  audentior  ito  — 
Yield  thou  not  to  ills,  but  bolder  go  to  meet  them, 

the  effect  is  lost,  partly  because  of  the  multiplication  of 
words ;  but  we  are  far  nearer  the  original  than  if  we  should 
write :  — 

Do  not  yield  to  ills,  but  with  greater  boldness  go  forth  to  meet 
them. 

Similarly,  we  read  "  the  moon's  fitful  light "  instead  of 
" the  fitful  light  of  the  moon "  ;  "I  fled  Him  down  the 
years,"  for  "  I  fled  from  Him  " ;  "  'Twas  a  thief  said  the 
last  kind  words  to  Christ,"  for  "It  was  a  thief  that 
said"  — : 

In  the  same  spirit,  the  poet  frames  compound  words, 
as  " the  dusty-raftered,  many-cobweb'd  Hall,"  —  "a  huge 
crag-platform"  —  "the  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-railed," 
and  repeatedly  so  in  Tennyson. 

(3)  But  the  chief  thing  to  remember  is  that  emotional 
intensity  depends  not  upon  diction  alone,  but  upon  the 
writer's  attitude  of  mind. 

(a)  In  narrating,  his  aim  is,  not  to  enumerate  a  series 
of  facts  or  incidents,  but  to  express  his  joy,  admiration, 
wonder,  sorrow,  indignation,  in  what  he  narrates.  Hence 
he  does  not  say,  he  took  the  sword,  but  he  clutched  it,  which 
is  more  energetic;  not  he  ivent  in  among  the  bulrushes,  but 
plunged  among  the  bulrush-beds  ;  not  the  sword  flew  through 
the  air,  but  the  great  brand  made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 
the  moon.  Describing  a  combat  he  does  not  coolly  state. 
Each  one,  hoping  at  a  single  blow  to  Mil  his  antagonist,  angrily 
aimed  his  spear  ;  but  with  enthusiasm 


200  APPENDIX  II 

Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds, 
With  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian. 

—  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Book  II,  11.  711  f£. 

(6)  In  expressing  thoughts  or  reflections,  the  poet  does 
not  use  explanatory  language ;  his  primary  aim  is  not  to 
make  himself  clear  and  explicit.  He  does  not  tell  the  reader 
his  thought  in  precise  terms,  but,  throwing  it  forth  in  some 
emotional  garb,  he  trusts  the  reader  to  interpret  it  for  him- 
self. 

Thus  Wordsworth  conceived  the  idea  that  when  a  man 
is  born  he  brings  with  him  into  the  world  vague  memories 
of  something  experienced  before.  In  his  poem  he  does  not 
explain  this,  but  sings  of  it,  as  a  benediction :  — 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  "Who  is  our  home. 

—  "  Intimations." 

So  Shakespeare  does  not  say  directly  and  clearly  that  men 
show  mercy  not  under  compulsion  but  freely ;  he  sings  of 
it,  as  inspired  with  its  sweetness  and  gentleness :  — 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained. 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath. 

—  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  Act  IV,  So.  1, 11.  184  ff. 


APPENDIX   III 
Suggestions  for  Verse-Writing 

1.  The  chapter  on  versification  should  first  be  studied 
with  care.  The  student  should  understand  that  a  line  of 
verse  is  not  good  merely  because  it  can  be  scanned.  To 
write  musical  verse  he  must  rely  eventually  upon  his  ear, 
educated  by  persistent  reading.  Secondly,  the  metrical 
variations  should  be  used  sparingly,  and  at  the  beginning  not 
at  all,  with  the  exception  of  "  initial  inversion,"  which  is 
always  permissible. 

The  following  cautions  will  help  him  to  escape  certain 
elementary  defects. 

(a)  Avoid  parallel  gramrnatical  constructions  in  succes- 
sive lines.  The  following  lines  are  sing-song,  partly  for 
this  reason. 

Here  is  a  house  of  peaceful  rest, 
Here  is  a  balm  for  the  wounded  breast, 
Here  fragrant  flowers  shed  their  bloom 
And  heavenly  rays  disperse  the  gloom. 

Keats  did  not  write  :  — 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees 
And  fill  with  kernels  the  ripe  hazel  shells. 

Compare  the  corresponding  lines  in  his  "  Ode  to  Autumn." 
(6)  Do  not  crowd  heavy  consonant  sounds  in   one   part 
of  the  line,  as  in  the  last  part  of  the  following :  — 

Who  could  offer  the  sunbloom  of  morn  on  her  cheeks  to  Death's 
drear  hand  to  blast  ? 

201 


202  '  APPENDIX  III 

(c)  Do  not  over-ballast  lines,  especially  when  the  verse 
should  be  light  and  easy.     If  Wordsworth  had  written:  — 

Thou  unassuming  common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
Dowered  with  heaven-sent,  queen-like  grace, 

the  third  line  would  have  been  over-ballasted. 

(d)  Try  to  vary  the  position  of  emphasis  in  successive 
lines,  as  explained  in  the  chapter  on  Versification. 

2.  After  the  ear  is  well  trained  to  English  verse-music, 
exercises  in  "  broken  verse  "  will  be  interesting  and  profit- 
able, especially  as  classroom  work.  Blank  verse  affords 
the  most  feasible  material  for  this  exercise,  but  we  may  use 
also  such  lines  as  Shelley's  "  Mont  Blanc,"  and  Swinburne's 
"Triumph  of  Time."  A  little  practice  in  "broken  verse" 
brings  before  the  student  the  possibilities  and  impossibilities 
of  word  and  phrase  maneuvering  better  than  could  be  done 
by  any  mere  observation  of  poetical  language,  however  pro- 
tracted. 

3.  For  many  beginners  rhyme  proves  a  stumbling-block. 
But  to  rhyme  with  ease  is  a  knack  that  may  be  acquired  by 
a  little  practice.  Write  every  day  for  a  week  or  two,  as 
rapidly  as  possible,  a  Spenserian  stanza  containing  a  bit 
of  romantic  description.  And  before  doing  so  note  that 
syllables  containing  a  long  vowel  sound  make  the  easiest 
rhymes,  such  as  day,  fade,  rain,  hate,  seen,  isle,  light, 
dire,  and  that  certain  sounds,  especially  short  vowels  fol- 
lowed by  two  consonants,  are  sometimes  dangerous,  as  crisp, 
lost,  birth,  although  riiiy,  vest,  and  bent  are  common  and  easy 
sounds. 

4.  After  the  preceding  technicalities  have  been  mastered 
to  some  extent,  we  may  begin  verse-composition  proper.  The 
first  exercises  should  be  some  broad  and  free  kind  of  imita- 
tion ;  the  following  may  be  suggested. 


VERSE-WRITING  203 

(a)  The  easiest  beginning  will  be  to  compose  brief  word- 
pictures  comprised  in  a  single  stanza,  in  which  we  aim  at 
vividness,  condensation,  and  suggestiveness.  A  ready  model 
may  be  found  in  Tennyson's  "  Palace  of  Art,"  or  better  still 
in  the  "  Pictures  "  of  Lewis  Morris,  a  few  of  which  are 
inserted  below. 

(6)  Next,  longer  descriptions  may  be  attempted  after  the 
style  of  Tennyson's  "Lotus  Eaters"  or  Thomson's  "Castle 
of  Indolence,"  or  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene."  The  object 
now  is  to  express  ourselves  first  with  coherence,  secondly 
with  great  richness  of  vocabulary,  and  thirdly  with  a  view 
to  bring  out  a  single  emotional  impression.  The  subjects 
should  probably  be  of  a  romantic  character,  such  as,  "  The 
Home  of  the  Druids,"  "  The  Dance  of  the  Elves,"  "  The 
Land  of  Sleep,"  "  The  Stygian  Shores." 

(c)  We  may  now  pass  from  pure  description  to  the  more 
explicit  expression  of  emotion.  The  simplest  form  will  be 
to  use  some  nature  image  to  embody  a  feeling  that  we 
experience.  Study  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  especially  Golden 
Treasury,  XXXVIII,  XV,  V,  also  Keats's  sonnet,  Golden 
Treasury,  CCXLIII,  and  write  something  similar  on  "  Be- 
reavement" or  on  the  thought  "I  too  was  born  to  die,"  or  on 
"  Hope,"  or  any  emotion  that  comes  naturally. 

(d)  Idealize  some  conception  or  experience  by  a  sustained 
metaphor  or  comparison  after  the  manner  of  Keats's  sonnet 
"On  Chapman's  Homer."  Themes  may  be  suggested  by 
"  ^neas's  Descent  to  Hades,"  "  The  Mysteries  of  Science," 
"The  Air-ship." 

(e)  Take  a  familiar  subject,  such  as  an  oak  tree  or  a  child's 
grave,  and  idealize  by  grouping  round  it  several  imaginative 
elements.  We  may  study,  first,  Wordsworth's  "  Solitary 
Reaper,"  and  "  The  Cuckoo,"  and  should  refer  to  the 
chapter  of  this  book  on  "The  Imagination,"  where  this 
exercise  is  treated. 


204  APPENDIX  III 

This  last  exercise  is,  of  course,  difficult,  and  requires 
poetic  feeling  and  breadth  of  imagination.  The  student 
who  can  master  it  with  any  degree  of  success  will  stand  in 
no  need  of  further  suggestions. 

PICTURES 

A  lurid  sunset,  red  as  blood, 
Firing  a  sombre  haunted  wood  ; 
From  whose  recesses,  dark  and  fell, 
One  hurries  with  a  face  of  Hell. 


A  full  sun  blazing  with  unclouded  day. 

Till  the  bright  waters  mingle  with  the  sky ; 

And  on  the  dazzling  verge  uplifted  high 
White  sails  mysterious  slowly  pass  away. 


The  sad,  slow  dawn  of  winter ;  frozen  trees 
.  And  trampled  snow  within  a  lonely  wood ; 
One  shrouded  form  which  to  the  city  flees, 
And  one,  a  masquer,  lying  in  his  blood. 


A  youthful  martyr,  looking  to  the  skies 

From  rack  and  stake,  from  torment  and  disgrace; 

And  suddenly  heaven  opened  to  his  eyes, 
A  beckoning  hand,  a  tender,  heavenly  face. 

—  Lewis  Morris. 


APPENDIX  IV 
The  Troublesome  Reign  of  John,  King  of  England 

(Scene  12) 

Hubert  —  My  masters,  I  have  showed  you  what  warrant  I  have, 
for  this  attempt.  I  perceive  of  your  heavy  countenance,  you  had 
rather  be  otherwise  employed,  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  would  the 
King  had  made  use  of  some  other  executioner.  Only  this  is  my 
comfort  that  a  king  commands,  whose  precepts,  neglected  or  omit- 
ted, threateneth  torture  for  the  default.  Therefore,  in  brief,  leave 
me  and  be  ready  to  attend  the  adventure.  Stay  within  that  entry, 
and,  when  you  hear  me  cry  "  God  save  the  King,"  issue  suddenly 
forth,  lay  hands  on  Arthur,  set  him  in  this  chair,  wherein  (once  fast 
bound)  leave  him  with  me  to  finish  the  rest. 

Attendants  —  We  go,  though  loath. 

Hubert  —  ^My  Lord,  will  it  please  your  honor  to  take  the  benefice 
of  the  fair  evening  ? 

(Enter  Arthur^ 
Arthur — ^^Gramercy,  Hubert,  for  thy  care  of  me. 

In  or  to  whom  restraint  is  newly  known. 

The  joy  of  walking  is  small  benefit ; 

Yet  will  I  take  thy  offer  with  small  thanks. 

I  would  not  lose  the  pleasure  of  the  eye. 

But  tell  me,  courteous  keeper,  if  you  can. 

How  long  the  king  will  have  me  tarry  here. 

Hubert  —  I  know  not,  prince  ;  but,  as  I  guess,  not  long. 

God  send  you  freedom,  and  —  "  God  save  the  King." 

(Tliey  issue  forth) 
Arthur  —  Why,  how  now,  Sirs?    What  may  this  outrage  mean? 
Oh,  help  me,  Hubert,  gentle  keeper,  help  1 

205 


206  APPENDIX  IV 

God  send,  this  sudden  mutinous  approach 
Tend  not  to  reave  a  wretched,  guiltless  life. 

Hubert  —  So,  Sirs,  depart,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Arthur  —  Then  Arthur  yields.     Death  frowneth  in  thy  face. 
What  meaneth  this  ?    Good  Hubert,  plead  the  case. 

Hubert  —  Patience,  young  Lord,  and  listen  words  of  woe, 
Harmful  and  harsh,  hell's  horror  to  be  heard, 
A  dismal  tale,  fit  for  a  Fury's  tongue. 
I  faint  to  tell,  deep  sorrow  is  the  sound. 

Arthur  —  What  ?    Must  I  die  ? 

Hubert  —  No  news  of  death,  but  tidings  of  more  hate, 
A  wrathful  doom  and  most  unlucky  fate. 
Death's  dish  were  dainty  at  so  full  a  feast. 
Be  deaf !     Hear  not !     It's  hell  to  tell  the  rest. 

Arthur —  Alas,  thou  wrongest  my  youth,  with  words  of  fear. 
'Tis  hell,  'tis  horror,  not  for  one  to  hear. 
What  is  it,  man  ?    If  it  must  needs  be  done, 
Act  it,  and  end  it,  that  the  pain  were  gone. 

Hubert  —  I  will  not  chant  such  dolour  with  my  tongue. 
Yet  must  I  act  the  outrage  with  my  hands. 
My  heart,  my  head,  and  all  my  powers  beside. 
Peruse  this  letter ;  lines  of  troubled  woe. 
Bead  all  my  charge,  and  pardon  when  you  know. 

{Letter) 

Arthur  —  Ah,  monstrous,  damned  man  ! 
His  very  breath  infects  the  elements. 
Contagious  venom  dwelleth  in  his  heart, 
Effecting  means  to  poison  all  the  world. 
Unreverent  may  I  be,  to  blame  the  heavens 
Of  great  injustice,  that  the  miscreant 
Lives  to  oppress  the  innocent  with  wrong. 
Ah,  Hubert,  makes  he  thee  his  instrument 
To  sound  the  trump,  that  causeth  hell  triumph  ? 
Heaven  weeps ;  the  saints  do  shed  celestial  tears ; 
They  fear  thy  fall,  and  cut  thee  with  remorse. 
They  knock  thy  conscience,  moving  pity  there, 


THE  TROUBLESOME  REIGN  207 

Willing  to  fence  thee  from  the  rage  of  Hell. 

Hell,  Hubert,  trust  me,  all  the  plagues  of  Hell 

Hangs  on  performance  of  this  damned  deed. 

This  seal,  the  warrant  of  the  body's  bliss, 

Ensureth  Satan  chieftain  of  thy  soul. 

Subscribe  not,  Hubert,  give  not  God's  part  away. 

I  speak  not  only,  for  eyes'  privilege, 

The  chief  exterior  that  I  would  enjoy ; 

But  for  thy  peril,  far  beyond  my  pain. 

Thy  sweet  soul's  loss,  more  than  my  eyes*  vain  lack, 

A  cause  internal  and  eternal  too. 

Advise  thee,  Hubert,  for  the  case  is  hard 

To  lose  salvation  for  a  king's  reward. 

Hubert  —  My  Lord,  a  subject  dwelling  in  the  land 
Is  tied  to  execute  his  king's  command. 

Arthur  —  Yet  God  commands,  —  whose  power  reacheth  further,  — 
That  no  command  should  stand  in  force  to  murder. 

Hubert  —  But  that  same  Essence  hath  ordained  a  law, 
A  death  for  guilt,  to  keep  the  world  in  awe. 

Arthur  —  1  plead  not  guilty,  —  treasonless  and  free. 

Hubert  —  But  that  appeal,  my  Lord,  concerns  not  me. 

Arthur  —  Why,  thou  art  he  that  mayest  omit  the  peril. 

Hubert  —  Aye,  if  my  sovereign  would  remit  his  quarrel. 

Arthur  —  His  quarrel  is  unhallowed,  false  and  wrong. 

Hubert  —  Then  be  the  blame  to  whom  it  doth  belong. 

Arthur — Why,  —  that's  to  thee,  if  thou,  as  they,  proceed 
Conclude  their  judgment  with  so  vile  a  deed. 

Hubert  —  Why,  then  no  execution  can  be  lawful 
If  judges  doom  must  be  reputed  doubtful. 

Arthur  —  Yes,  —  where  in  form  of  law,  in  place  and  time, 
The  offender  is  convicted  of  the  crime. 

Hubert  —  My  Lord,  my  Lord,  this  long  expostulation 
Keeps  up  more  grief  than  promise  of  redress ; 
For  this  I  know,  and,  so  resolved,  I  end, 
That  subjects'  lives  on  king's  commands  depend. 
I  must  not  reason  why  he  is  your  foe, 
But  do  his  charge,  since  he  commands  it  so. 

Arthur  —  Then  do  thy  charge,  and  charged  be  thy  soul 


208  APPENDIX  IV 

Witli  wrongful  persecution  done  this  day. 
Yon  rolling  eyes,  whose  superficies  yet 
I  do  behold  with  eyes  that  nature  lent, 
Send  forth  the  terror  of  your  Mover's  crown 
To  wreak  my  wrong  upon  the  murderers, 
That  rob  me  of  your  fair  reflecting  view. 
Let  Hell  to  them  (as  earth  they  wish  to  me) 
Be  dark  and  direful  guerdon  for  their  guilt. 
And  let  the  black  tormentors  of  deep  Tartary 
Upbraid  them  with  this  damned  enterprise, 
Inflicting  change  of  tortures  on  their  souls. 
Delay  not,  Hubert,  my  orisons  are  ended. 
Begin,  I  pray  thee,  reave  me  of  my  sight. 
But,  to  perform  a  tragedy  indeed. 
Conclude  the  period  with  a  mortal  stab. 
Constance,  farewell !     Tormentor,  come  away ! 
Make  my  despatch  the  tyrant's  feasting-day. 

Hubert  —  I  faint,  I  fear,  my  conscience  bids  desisto 
Faint,  did  I  say  ?  —  fear  was  it  that  I  named  ? 
My  king  commands,  that  warrant  sets  me  free. 
But  God  forbids,  and  He  commandeth  Kings. 
That  Great  Commander  counterchecks  my  charge. 
He  stays  my  hand.  He  maketh  soft  my  heart. 
Go,  cursed  tools,  your  office  is  exempt. 
Cheer  thee,  young  Lord,  thou  shalt  not  lose  an  eye, 
Though  I  should  purchase  it  with  loss  of  life. 
I'll  to  the  king,  and  say  his  word  is  done. 


INDEX 


References  are  to  pages. 


Accent,  as  governing  metre,   152- 
154; 
and  quantity,  175 ; 
The  hovering,  154. 

Active,  The,  imagination,  30. 

Adaptation  of  expression  to  emo- 
tion, 138,  142. 

Admiration,  the    distinctive    emo- 
tion of  epic  poetry,  94. 

Aeneid,  Analysis  of  the,  97-98. 

Alexandrine  line,  The,  154. 

Amplification,       Rhetorical,       not 
suited  to  poetry,  140. 

Anapestic  lines,  155,  158. 

Apostrophe  in  poetic  diction,  198. 

Aristophanes,  The  Birds,  127  ; 
The  Clouds,  128; 
The  Frogs,  127. 

Aristotle,  The  Poetics,  22,  105. 

Aristotle's  definition  of  poetry,  9- 
10. 

Artificial,  The,  style,  75. 

Association,  Imaginative,  68. 

Bale,  Bishop  John,  The  Trouble- 
some Reign  of  John,  King  of 
England,  49. 
Ballad,  The,  136-137. 
Beautiful,  Description  of  the,  2-4. 
Beowulf,  99. 
Blank  verse,  169-170. 
Browning,  Robert,  Prospice,  192  ; 

Ghent  to  Aix,  158; 

ParacelsvS,  197. 
Burns,  Sensibility,  139. 
Byron,  Childe  Harold,  140. 


Cadence,  The  metrical,  169. 
Csesural  pause,  The,  163. 


Caricature,   the  essence  of  satire, 

147. 
Catalexis,  156-157. 
Character,  Description  of,  45-46 ; 
Contrast  of,  in  the  drama,  108 ; 
Dramatic  representation  of,  46- 

49; 
Portrayal  of,  in  the  drama,  107- 

108; 
Portrayal  of,  in  Greek  tragedy, 

117; 
Studies  of,  in  relation  to  poetry, 
150. 
Character,  The   primary,  in    trag- 
edy,  106-107. 
Chaucer,  The  Canterbury  Tales,  40, 

79. 
Choral  odes  in  Greek  tragedy,  118. 
Classicism  vs.  Romanticism,  89-91. 
Climax  in  poetical  composition,  78. 
Clough,  a.  H.,  Qua  Cursum  Ventus, 

198. 
Coherence  in  Dramatic  action,  111. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  Biographia  Lit- 
teraria,  14 ; 
Frost  at  Midnight,  34; 
The  Ancient  Mariner,  32,  55. 
Collins,  Wm.,  Ode  to  Evening,  141. 
Comedy,  Romantic,  124 ; 

The  New  (Roman),  128-130; 
The  Old,  of  the  Greeks,  126-128. 
Comic  and  tragic  treatment,  125. 
Comparison,  The  power  of,  81. 
Complication,  The,  in  epic  narra- 
tive, 96-97 ; 
in  dramatic  action,  113. 
Composition,  The,  of  verse,   192- 

193,  194,  196,  201-204. 
Compound  words,  199. 


209 


210 


INDEX 


References  are  to  pages. 


Concentration  in  lyric  poetry,  139- 

140. 
Conciseness  in  expressing  emotion, 

198-199. 
Conclusion,  The,  in  the  dramatic 

action,  114. 
Consistency  in  poetry,  63. 
Constructive  power  of  imagination. 

See  Creative. 
Couplet,  The  rhyming,  166,  168. 
Chashaw,  The  Flaming  Heart,  26- 

27. 
Creative  power  of  imagination,  36- 

37. 
Crisis,  The,  in  the  dramatic  action, 

115. 

Dactylic  lines,  155,  158. 

Darwin,    Erasmus,    The    Botanic 

Garden,  76. 
Description,  Suggestive,  83-84 ; 

Diction  of,  191-192 ; 

of  a  stationary  object,  82  ; 

of  human  character,  45-46 ; 

Probability  in,  62-66 ; 

The  imagination  in,  38-40  ; 

Thought  implied  in,  54. 
De  Verb,  Aubrey,  Ode  to  the  Daf- 
fodil, 34-35 ; 

Autumnal  Ode,  45 ; 

Evening  Melody,  198. 
Diction,  an  aid  to  idealization,  68. 
Didactic  poetry,  145-146. 
DoBSON,  Austin,  Triolet,  24. 
Drama,  The,  represents  an  external 
action,  103,  110; 

enlists  other  arts,  103  ; 

compared  with  the  epic,  103. 
Dramatic  and  epic  poetry  compared, 
93,  95,  109 ; 

and  lyric  poetry  compared,  93  ; 

lyrics  and  narratives,  149-150  ; 

representation   of   character,  46- 
49. 

"  Echoing  "  an  emotional  word  or 

phrase,  198. 
Economy  in  diction,  198-199. 


Elegy,  The,  135. 

Emotion,   Description  of  a  noble, 
5,  6,  18-24 ; 
How  to  estimate,  in  poetry,  25- 

26; 
motived  by  thought,  52  ; 
proportioned  to  thought,  56-58. 
Emotional,  The,  aspect  of  thought, 
56; 
intensity  in  narrating,  199  ; 
intensity    in    the    expression    of 

thought,  200 ; 
intensity  of  diction,  197-200. 
Emphasis  in  metrical  effects,  164- 

165,  173. 
Epeisodia  in  Greek  tragedy,  118. 
Epic,  The,  of  Art,  100 ; 

compared   with   the   drama   and 

lyric,  93,  103,  109 ; 
distinguished  from  other  narra- 
tive forms,  101-102 ; 
unity  of  motive  in,  96. 
Epic   and   tragic   unity   compared, 
109; 
action.  Freedom  of  treatment  in, 

96; 
and  tragic  action  compared,  95, 
109. 
Epirrhema,  The,  in  Greek  comedy, 

128. 
Episodes,  defined,  96 ; 

in  epic  poetry,  96. 
Epithets,  191. 
Euripides,    Hecuba,    22,    63,    113, 

116. 
Exclamation,  197. 
Exodos,  The,  in  Greek  tragedy,  118, 
Expression,  how  related  to  thought, 

74-76. 
Extravagance  in  poetic  emotion,  57. 
Extravaganza,  The,  in  Greek  com- 
edy, 127. 

Fanciful,    Restricted    use    of    the 

term,  35. 
Fancy  and  imagination,  31-37. 
Fear  and  pity  in  tragedy,  22,  104- 

106. 


INDEX 


211 


References  are  to  pages. 


Fiction,  The  truth  of,  62-66. 
Fluidity  in  lyric  poetry,  141,  143. 

Goldsmith,  Deserted  Village,  46. 
Gray,  Elegy,  66,  161 ; 

On  a  Favourite  Cat,  24. 
Greek  comedy,   The  parabasis  in, 
128; 
Character  treatment  in,  118-119  ; 
tragedy.  The  religious  character 

of,  119; 
Treatment  of  the  action  in,  125. 

Heroic  metre,  155. 
Homer,  Iliad,  39,  46. 
Horace,  Ars  Poetica,  149. 
Hovering,  The,  accent,  154. 
Humor,  Sources  of,  in  comedy,  124. 
Hypermeter,  156. 

Iambic  lines,  155,  159. 
Iambic,  The,  movement,  159. 
Idealization,  39,  66-71 ; 

Imaginative  association  in,  68 ; 

Methods  of,  68 ; 

The  heightening  process  in,  68 ; 

The  Hmits  of,  71 ; 

The  selective  process  in,  67. 
Idealism,  as  a  poetic  tendency,  89. 
Imagery,  Vividness  of,  38 ; 

Emotion  suggested  by,  25 ; 

Emotional  power  of,  38,  39  ; 

Truth  of,  38 ; 

Unified  impression  in  use  of,  40. 
Imagination,  Definition  of,  29; 

acting    in     concert    with     other 
faculties,  31 ; 

and  fancy,  31-37 ; 

How  related  ^o  poetry,  30  ; 

The  active  and  passive,  30 ; 

The  imaging  power  and  creative 
power  of,  32-37 ; 

The  productive  and  reproductive, 
29; 

The  unifying  power  of,  36 ; 

in  description,  38-41 ; 

in  narration,  38-41,  190-197; 

Intuitive  power  of,  50. 


Imaginative  elements  in  the  poem, 
50; 
intensity  of  diction,  190-197. 
Immoral,  The,  in  art,  7,  19,  20. 
Impressionist  poetry,  55. 
Impressiveness.     See  Intensity. 
In  Memoriam  stanza.  The,  168. 
Insincerity,     Poetic,     how     mani- 
fested, 57,  137-138. 
Intensity    in    poetic    diction,  190- 
200; 
in  expressing  thought,  200 ; 
in  narrating,  199. 
Interpretation,     The,     of    Nature, 
42^5; 
Modes  of  nature,  43,  44. 
Introduction,   The,   in  the  drama, 
112; 
in  the  epic,  96. 
Intuitive  power  of  imagination,  50. 
Invective  not  satire,  146. 
Inversion  in  poetic  diction,  198 ; 
as  a  metrical  variation,  156. 

Katharsis,  The,  of  the  passions  in 

tragedy,  22,  104-106. 
Keats,  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  23  ; 

Endymion,  41 ; 

Hyperion,  44 ; 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  55 ; 

Nightingale,  50. 
King  Lear,  Analysis  of,  122. 

Lessing,  The  Laokoon,  83. 
Long  syllables.  Effect  of,  159. 
Longfellow,  Hiawatha,  160. 
Lyric,  The,  attitude  in  epic  poetry, 

95. 
Lyric    poetry    differentiated    from 

other  forms,  93,  132-133. 
Lytton,  Bulwer,  Richelieu,  49. 

Marlowe,  The  Jew  of  Malta,  21. 

Melody  of  verse,  as  an  aid  to  ideal- 
ization, 68. 

Metaphor,  Intensity  in  the  use  of, 
194-197 ; 
Farfetched,  194,  196. 


212 


INDEX 


References  are  to  pages. 


Metre  and  poetry,  11,  12. 
Metrical  effect  of  various  lines  and 
syllables,  158-162 ; 
analysis  of  Paradise  Lost,  Bk.  IV, 

11.  598  ff.,  181 ; 
analysis    of    Keats's    Ode    to   the 

Nightingale,  182; 
phrasing,  169 ; 
variations,  156-157. 
Milton,  U  Allegro,  189  ; 
Lycidas,  40 ; 
Paradise  Lost,  81,  189,  192,  195, 

200; 
Samson  Agonistes,  110. 
Monometer,  dimeter,  etc..  The,  154. 
Moore,  Thos.,  Song,  138. 
Morality  and  art,  7,  18,  19. 
Music  and  poetry,  8,  74 ; 

of  language,  as  a  resource  of  ex- 
pression, 85-88. 

Narration,  Climax  in,  78  ; 

Emotional  diction  in,  199  ; 

Preternatural  incidents  in,  65  ; 

Probabi  ity  in,  62-66 ; 

Proportion  in,  78 ; 

The  imagination  in,  38-41 ; 

Thought  implied  in,  54  ; 

Unity  in,  78. 
Narrative  poetry,  and  the  narrative 
in  prose,  94 ; 

and  lyric,  132-133 ; 

Various  forms  of,  101-102. 
Nash,  Spring  Song,  43. 
Naturalness,  an  element  of  poetic 

truth,  64,  65. 
Nature,  as  colored  by  the  poet,  41, 
42; 

The  interpretation  of,  42-45. 
Noble  emotion,  Description  of,  5,  6. 

Ode,  The,  135. 

CEdipus  Tyrannus,  Analysis  of,  120. 
Order  of  treatment  in  the  epic,  96. 
Originality,  58-59. 
Otiose  epithets,  191. 
Outline  or  plan.  The  making  of  the, 
79. 


Painting    and    poetry,    8,    74,    80, 

81. 
Parabasis,  The,  in  Greek  comedy, 

128. 
Paragraph,  The  verse,  170. 
Parodos,   The,  in    Greek    tragedy, 

118. 
Pathetic  fallacy.  The,  41,  42. 
Pause,  The  caesural,  163  ; 
as  a  metrical  variation,  157 ; 
in  dramatic  action,  111. 
Peripeteia,  The,  in  dramatic  action, 

115. 
Photography,  not  a  fine  art,  67. 
Phrasing,  Metrical,  169. 
Picturesque  diction,  191-192. 
Pity    and    fear    in    tragedy,    104- 

108. 
Plan  or  outline.  The  making  of  the, 

79. 
Plautus,  The  Two  Captives,  126 ; 

Mostellaria,  129. 
Plot,  Unity  of,  in  the  drama,  108- 
109; 
Double,  in  romantic  drama,  108- 
109. 
PoE,  Ullalume,  177. 
Poetry,  and  painting,  74,  80,  81 ; 
and  prose,  16,  17  ; 
and  morality,  7,  18,  19. 
Pope,  Art  of  Criticism,  163  ; 

Eloisa  to  Abelard,  189. 
Probability  in  narration,  62-66  ; 

in  the  dramatic  fable,  110-111. 
Prologos,  The,   in   Greek   tragedy, 
118; 
in  dramatic  action,  112. 
Prologue,  The,  in  Roman  comedy, 

130. 
Proportion  in  poetical  composition, 

78. 
Prose  and  poetry,  16,  17. 
Prose-poetry,  18. 
Pseudo-classicism,  90. 
Purgation,  The,  of  the  passions  in 
tragedy,  22,  104-106. 

Quatrain,  The,  166,  168. 


INDEX 


218 


References  are  to  pages. 


Realism  as  a  poetic  tendency,  69- 
70,  89. 

Reasonableness,     an     element     of 
truth,  63. 

Reproductive,  The,  imagination,  29. 

Reversal,  The,  in  the  dramatic  ac- 
tion, 113-114. 

Rhetorical  amplification,  140. 

Rhythm  of  verse,  suggestive  of  emo- 
tion, 26. 

Rise,  The,  of  the  dramatic  action, 
113. 

Romance,  Truth  in,  64-66. 

Romantic,  drama,  108-109 ; 
comedy,  124. 

Romanticism    and    Classicism,  89- 
91. 

RossETTi,  D.  G.,  Lost  Days,  167. 

RusKiN,  Modern  Painters,  42. 

Satire  in  Greek  comedy,  127. 
Scott,  Marmion,  160. 
Sentimentalism,  57. 
Shakespeare,  Hamlet,  53,  86,  197 ; 

Julius  Ccesar,  53,  110; 

King  John,  21,  49,  63; 

Lear,  21,  108,  114; 

Lear,  Analysis  of,  122-124 ; 

Macbeth,  25,  26,  80,  115,  196; 

Measure  for  Measure,  86  ; 

Merchant  of  Venice,  44,  200 ; 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  125  ; 

Midsummer  NighVs  Dream,  38 ; 

Richard  II,  33,  195  ; 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  32,  85  ; 

Sonnet,  41,  81 ; 

Tempest,  84 ; 

Winter's  Tale,  39. 
Shelley,  Defense  of  Poetry,  14 ; 

Dirge,  68 ; 

The  Invitation,  142 ; 

West  Wind,  35,  57. 
Sidney,  Sonnet,  42. 
Simile,  The,  81,  194-197. 
Simplicity  in  ancient  tragedy,  116- 

117. 
Sincerity,  Poetic,  57,  137-138 ; 

in  lyric  poetry,  137-138. 


Solution,  The,  in  the  epic  poem,  96- 
97. 

Song,  The,  135-136. 

Sonnet,  The,  166-167,  168-169. 

Sophocles,  Antigone,  107 ; 

(Edipus  Tyranny^,  108,  115,  118; 
CEdipus    Tyranny^,   Analysis  of, 
120-121. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  Faerie  Queene, 
166. 

Spenserian,  The,  stanza,  166,  168. 

Stasima,  The,  in  Greek  tragedy,  1 18. 

Stress,  or  accent,  in  verse,  153. 

Structural  features  of  composition, 
77-80. 

Structure  of  the  lyric,  141-143. 

Style.     See  Chapter  on  Expression. 

Substitution,   as  a  metrical  varia- 
tion, 156. 

Suggestive  description,  83-84,  193. 

Suggestiveness  of  words  in  the  con- 
text, 188-190. 

Swift,  In  Sickness,  139. 

Swinburne,  Atalanta  in  Calydon, 
26; 
Choriambics,  38 ; 
Loch  Torridon,  177. 

Symbolists,  The  school  of,  55. 

Tendencies,  Four  poetic,  88-91. 
Tennyson,  The  Captain,  17 ; 

Fatima,  55; 

Idylls  of  the  King,  37 , 

Morte  d' Arthur,  38 ; 

The  Last  Tournament,  195 ; 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  58 ; 

Ulysses,  163. 
Thompson,  Francis,  A  Corymlma 
for  Autumn,  190,  192  ; 

The  Hound  of  Heaven,  189. 
Thomson,  James,  Winter,  34,  46. 
Thought,  as  manifested  in  poetry, 
53,  54 ; 

as  related  to  expression,  74-76 ; 

as  suggesting  emotion,  26  ; 

as  the  motive  of  emotion,  52  ; 

as  proportioned  to  the  emotion, 
56-58; 


214 


INDEX 


References  are  to  pages. 


Thought,  Emotional  intensity  in  the 
expression  of,  56,  200  ; 

Fresh  realization  of,  59. 
Tragedy,  Fear  and  pity  in,  22. 
Tragic  and  comic  treatment,  125. 
Trochaic,  The,  line,  155,  159. 
Truth,  governing  general  ideas,  59- 
60; 

as  related  to  idealism,  70-71 ; 

in  historical  subjects,  62  ; 

in  romantic  poetry,  64-66 ; 

in  satire,  147; 

in  tragedy,  110-111 ; 

of  fiction,  62-66. 
Turning-point,    The,     in    the   dra- 
matic action,  115. 

Ultra-romanticism,  90. 

Unities,  The  three,  in  classic  drama, 

116-117. 
Unity,  in  poetical  structure,  77-78 ; 
in  Greek  tragedy,  116-117; 
in  the  epic,  96,  109  ; 
in  tragedy,  108-109. 
Universality,  as  a  quality  of  poetry, 
22,  139. 

Variations,  Metrical,  156 ; 

in  position  of  the  caesura,  163. 


Verest,  J.,  Manuel  de  Litterature, 

100,  146. 
Vergil,  ^neid,  34,  95,  96,  97,  99 ; 

Analysis  of,  97-98. 
Verse  and  poetry,  1,2; 

as  a  resource  of  expression,  85- 
88. 
Verse-music,  an  aid  to  idealization, 
68; 
The  abuse  of,  86. 
Verse-paragraphing  in  blank  verse, 

170. 
Verse-stress,  Rules  governing,  153. 
Vividness  of  imagery,  38. 

Word-accent,  152 ; 

-music,  as  a  resource  of  expres- 
sion, 85-88 ; 
-painting,  83-84,  193. 
Words  influenced  by  their  setting, 

188-190. 
Wordsworth,   Intimations  of  Im- 
r/iortality,  200 ; 
Lucy,  34 ; 
Ruth,  37 ; 
The  Prelude,  68 ; 
We  are  Seven,  55  ; 
Written  in  Early  Spring,  27. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

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Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^ — ai^iov'seFni 


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General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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